


Inquisition Holiday

by servantofclio



Series: Rory and Simon Trevelyan [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, additional appearances by much of the Inquisition cast, also Sebastian Vael, and Fenris, and Hawke - Freeform, background Trevelyan/Cassandra, background hawke/fenris, that second Trevelyan is the other Trevelyan twin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-07-01
Packaged: 2019-02-27 12:48:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13248573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/servantofclio/pseuds/servantofclio
Summary: After Corypheus' defeat, Inquisitor Simon Trevelyan indulges in a long-lasting desire to visit the Grand Tourney of the Free Marches, for some fun and relaxation.It's the last chance for most of the Inquisitor's companions to relax together, as they prepare to part ways and return home. But between new friends, old friends, and enemies, the Tourney won't be all fun and games.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story takes place after the defeat of Corypheus but before the events of Trespasser. It also takes place in a universe where the Trevelyan twins, Simon and Rory, share the Anchor, and have worked together throughout the Inquisition.

Afterward, Simon never could remember how they’d gotten on the subject of the Grand Tourney in the first place. It was one of those things that started, like a lot of ideas, in the Herald’s Rest over a couple of rounds of ale. Life had slowed down a lot since they’d defeated Corypheus, and more often than not, Simon whiled away an hour or two in the evening there, surrounded by a cheerful, talkative crowd. Lots of jokes and music and laughter, lots of tales told, some of them highly embellished in the telling. That was what had started it, probably; maybe something Rainier said, now that he was telling the rest of them pieces of his real past.

Whatever had set it off, somewhere in the middle of a conversation, Simon said, “I almost competed in the Grand Tourney once.”

“Did you now?” Rainier said, with genial interest.

From her perch on a stool too tall for her, Sera asked, “What for? And did you?”

Simon grinned and took a drink. “Oh, I was young and foolish.”

“And that’s changed how?” the Iron Bull put in, a glint in his eye.

Simon raised his voice to carry over the general laughter that resulted, but otherwise ignored the jab. “I thought I was going to make my name and get myself out from under my family’s thumb. Cheers and hurrahs and fame and fortune. I wasn’t nearly as good as I thought I was, of course.”

Laughter and rueful grins followed all around, as nearly everybody thought back to themselves at twenty. “Isn’t that usually the way of it,” Rainier said.

Sera (who was probably just twenty or so, as far as Simon could make out) scowled at them and rocked dangerously on her stool. “What are you on about?”

“Sera’s the exception,” Bull said with a grin.

“But you didn’t go?” Rainier asked Simon, as several people snickered and Sera glared, probably plotting her revenge.

“No. Fell off my horse the week before, broke my arm.” Simon’s left arm twinged in memory. Or maybe it was the Anchor acting up again. “It was a stupid mistake, I knew better than that. Got careless. I expect I was all distracted with dreams of glory and wasn’t paying attention.”

“Rotten luck,” Rainier said.

Simon shrugged. He didn’t regret the loss any more, though he looked back on his younger self’s aspirations with a certain nostalgia. But then... if he’d gone to the Tourney when he’d intended to, he might not have been in Ostwick when Rory needed him, and that didn’t bear thinking about. Who knew what might have happened to both of them in that case?

There were people sitting in this room who thought Andraste had chosen him, out of everyone in the Conclave — everyone in Thedas, even — for her own reasons. Simon couldn’t manage to make himself believe that. But if he thought back over his life, that accident was one of a handful of times he could see his life swerving off in a different direction, one that didn’t lead to the Conclave and the Anchor and everything that had come after. “Some kind of luck, anyway. It was a while back, now. I guess it’s worked out all right in the end.” He downed the rest of his ale.

“They’re holding the Grand Tourney this spring, you know,” Varric put in from his seat at the end of the bar.

“Suppose it’s that time again,” Rainier said. “Where is it going to be?”

“Starkhaven,” Varric said with a certain weariness, as if the city’s mere existence tired him.

“We should go, we could all do with a holiday,” Simon said. He said it lightly, mostly joking, imagining hauling the whole lot of them on the road all the way to the Marches.

The suggestion met with immediate acclaim, though.

“Yes!” Sera said. “Let’s go somewhere and have a bit of fun for a change. ‘Stead of all the killing demons and weird magicky shit.” She shuddered

“Killing demons is fun,” said Bull.

“Different kind of fun, less creepy.”

Somewhere among the general chatter and increasingly outlandish suggestions about where the Inquisition should take everyone for a holiday, Simon realized he hadn’t been joking at all. For all that he’d grown up hearing about the Grand Tourney, and daydreamed about showing his mettle there, he’d never attended, even as a spectator.

But he could go now — Corypheus was defeated, and the Inquisition was still basking in people’s gratitude. There were still things to take care of — mopping up the last of the demons and Corypheus’ forces, a bit of diplomacy here and there — but a trip to the Tourney might even serve some of the same ends, mightn’t it?

#

“It’s not a bad idea,” Josephine said slowly, when he proposed it to her the next morning. Her head tipped to one side as she thought it over, dark curls bouncing.

“You truly think so?” Simon asked, trying to contain his eagerness.

Josephine smiled indulgently, which meant he couldn’t have been doing a very good job of it. “I do.” She gestured to a stack of correspondence. “I have here over a dozen letters from nobles in the Free Marches. Congratulations, invitations, belated offers of assistance, a few requests for aid.”

“Is there anything we need to address?” There were still rifts, here and there. Many of them were so small or so isolated that they posed no serious problem. Any rifts regularly spitting out demons in a populated area, however, needed to be dealt with, and the Anchor that Simon and Rory shared still had the only means of closing rifts.

Josephine shook her head. “Scattered reports of red lyrium deposits. Those bear investigation, but nothing that requires your personal attention. We might send someone knowledgeable to supervise the disposal of the lyrium.”

“Hm. Yes, we should see to that,” Simon said, mildly disappointed. Some truly compelling excuse would have been convenient.

“Still, a great deal could be gained through such an excursion. Opportunities to meet some of the leading Marcher nobles, to build ties outside of Orlais and Ferelden... we have actually had a great deal of support from Marchers, perhaps because they see you as one of their own, and a diplomatic visit may be welcome. There are a great many who would like to meet you, now that the threat is done.”

Simon snorted. “Let’s hope the reality isn’t a disappointment.”

“Not at all, I am sure,” Josephine said with a smile, and added, “You know, it is quite possible to schedule such an excursion for pleasure. It does not require a pressing strategic motive.”

“Mm.” Simon had barely even considered the possibility. They had all spent so much of the last few years running from one end of southern Thedas to the other, pursuing every advantage they could muster against their enemy. Planning a major trip for his own amusement seemed like sheerest self-indulgence. “Let’s not commit ourselves quite yet, shall we? I’d like to consult with some of the others first. But if you could explore the logistics of such a trip...”

“Of course.” Josephine was already reaching for her pen. “It will be no difficulty at all to make the arrangements.”

#

Simon always seemed to know where to find Rory without having to think about it. That day, he left Josephine’s office and turned his steps toward the tower on instinct, and indeed found Rory reading in their quarters, a flight of stairs below Simon’s. It took Simon a few minutes of standing in the doorway to get Rory’s attention away from the book they were absorbed in, however.

Rory finally looked up and started, laying a strip of linen in the book to mark their place. “Did you need me for something?” Rory asked.

“I was thinking about going to the Grand Tourney,” Simon said,

Rory blinked. “The Grand Tourney?”

“The greatest military exhibition of the Free Marches? Every three years? I was going to fight in it once?” He’d told Rory about it at the time, but he wasn’t surprised to find that the whole thing wasn’t as memorable for Rory as it had been for Simon.

“Oh! Yes, I remember now.” Rory looked at Simon expectantly.

“The next one is taking place in a few months, and Josephine thinks we might get some use out of the chance to meet a lot of Marcher nobles at once. It’s in Starkhaven, too, and the prince has been an ally.”

“All right, that makes sense.” Rory still looked mildly puzzled, like they couldn’t figure out why Simon had brought this up.

“So I thought we might go. Some of us, at any rate,” Simon said. “Sera’s all for it, and I think Rainier will want to go. I assume Josephine will want to handle some of the diplomatic arrangements in person. Varric’s headed back to Kirkwall soon anyway, so he’ll probably go. Maybe Bull and the Chargers. But before we got any further into planning, I wanted to see what you thought of it, and whether you wanted to come as well.”

Rory frowned, adjusting their spectacles. “You’re not going to fight, are you?”

“Of course not,” said Simon, who had not entertained the idea until that very second, and immediately, regretfully, rejected it. “Only to attend. It’s quite all right if you’d rather stay in Skyhold. Someone has to look after the place, and it should be nice and quiet with most of us out of the way.”

Rory sighed, glancing toward the window and frowning in thought. “You know,” they said after a few moments, “it might actually be a little too quiet here. I hate to say it, but I might get bored.”

“Bored? You? With plenty of books at hand?” Simon said, in exaggerated shock.

“There is that,” Rory allowed, looking around at the stacks of books occupying their quarters. “But with you gone, and without Cassandra here... ” They trailed off, looking pensive.

Simon offered a sympathetic smile and squeezed Rory’s shoulder. “We could try to contrive to pass through Val Royeaux?”

“Oh, I’m sure she’s terribly busy,” Rory said, glancing toward the folded letter that lay at the edge of their desk. “Half the grand clericships have been vacant since the Conclave, and of course there are the templars and the Seekers and the Circles to see to, as well.”

“I’m sure she’d be pleased to see you anyway,” Simon said, amused and sympathetic at once. When all this started, he never would have predicted his twin would end up romantically involved with the terrifying Seeker. Simon would have been glad for anyone who made Rory happy, but Cassandra turning flustered and equally happy was a startling side benefit. Her departure to become Divine had left Rory more melancholy than usual, though they were trying not to show it.

Rory shrugged. “Perhaps,” they said vaguely. “It’s weeks off yet. But I shall come along, if that’s quite all right.”

“It’s perfectly splendid, I only didn’t want to drag you along if you’d be bored at the Tourney.”

“Traveling with you is seldom boring,” Rory said dryly.

“Well, there shouldn’t be any rifts or disasters this time, at any rate,” Simon said.

“You’re tempting fate,” Rory pointed out, eyebrows raised.

Simon laughed, raking his fingers through his hair. “Damn, you’re right. I’d better stop talking, hadn’t I?”

#

Dorian was also easy to find, but that was because Dorian had decidedly usual haunts, and ventured out of them infrequently. At thie time of day, he was bound to be in his chosen corner of the library, acknowledged as his by everyone else in Skyhold. The rest of the mages had long since learned not to sit in his chair or disturb his books.

That day, however, Simon found Dorian not ensconced in his chair poring over his books, but standing with his back to the shelves. He was so busy frowning at a much-creased letter in his hand that he didn’t notice Simon’s approach until Simon was almost in arm’s reach, and when he looked up, his eyes and mouth bore a certain tightness.  He folded up the letter and tucked it into his sleeve before putting on a smile and greeting Simon with forced cheer. “There you are! Making the rounds early, I see.”

“What’s wrong?” Simon asked, bracing. They might as well get to whatever it was right away.

“Nothing’s _wrong_ ,” Dorian said, too quickly, and too carefully. “You know, I was just reading the most fascinating —”

“You do realize you’re wretched at hiding your feelings,” Simon said.

“Is _that_ my problem? No wonder they were on to us so quickly.”

Simon crossed his arms and leaned against the nearest bookshelf. His heart was beating faster. Fate, tempted, might be striking sooner than he’d thought possible. “I was thinking of when something’s bothering you, but I suppose the other applies, too.”

“Or perhaps you know me too well,” Dorian murmured.

Simon settled for giving him a searching look. Chances were Dorian would start talking to fill the silence soon enough.

He didn’t have to wait long, indeed, before Dorian sighed and said, “I’ve had a letter.”

“Yes?” Simon said warily. In spite of Dorian’s frequent protests of being friendless, he received letters quite regularly. They didn’t typically trouble him so. Simon hazarded a guess. “Your parents?”

“No, not at all. It’s from Mae.”

“Ah.” In that case, Simon could guess the content of the letter without seeing it. Fate striking, indeed; he’d been waiting for this blow to land since Dorian had first announced his intention to return home. “And how is Magister Tilani?”

“She’s well. No one’s managed to assassinate her just yet.” Dorian frowned into the distance. “In fact, with some of the more prominent Venatori dead or discredited, she’s had an easier time of it in the Magisterium. She’s trying to gather a faction among some of the younger magisters. The up-and-coming sort, the ones who are aren’t raving fanatics.

“She wants you there,” Simon said, with certainty. Tilani’s letters had hinted as much before, but Dorian hadn’t mentioned the fact since they’d defeated Corypheus.

“She does,” Dorian said quietly, and then added, louder, “It’s only a trifling matter, really, I can simply write her back with advice.”

Simon took a breath, steeling himself, and said, “I think you should go.”

Dorian’s lips parted for a second. “Do you?”

“It’s not that I want you to go,” Simon said hastily, pushing away from the bookshelf and taking a step closer. “This seems like an opportunity, that’s all. You said you meant to go back. Perhaps it’s the right time. ”

“I did,” Dorian said soberly. He’d gone abstracted, staring at something only he could see. “Back to the Imperium, though... it’ll be difficult.”

“I know.” Simon reached out and clasped Dorian’s arm. “A pit of vipers and horrors, you’re always telling me. Now’s your chance to change all that.”

“It won’t be that simple. No snapping my fingers and dropping a mountain on my enemies,” Dorian said.

“Yes, that was dead simple,” Simon said dryly. “Don’t give me that. You’re brilliant —”

“Well, obviously.”

Simon ignored the reflexive response. “— and you’re passionate about making the world a better place. About making your homeland better. It’s always been obvious how much you care. I don’t want to stand in the way of that.”

Dorian laughed, quietly. He blinked, refocusing on Simon. “You don’t stand in the way of anything. It’s because of you I’ve even thought of doing such a mad thing as throwing myself at imperial politics, anyway. Before, I just... left.”

Simon shook his head. “Because there were more urgent matters elsewhere.”

Dorian shook his head, in turn. He reached out to grip Simon’s shoulder. “That wasn’t the only thing. I talk a lot about the evils of my homeland, but I’ve never truly done anything to change them.”

“Then now’s the time,” Simon said.

“You’re trying awfully hard to get rid of me,” Dorian said. “I feel as though I should be offended.”

Somehow they’d drifted closer together, inch by inch; close enough that Simon could lean forward enough to make contact, brow to brow. “No. Believe me, I’d like to keep you here forever.”

“What a trial that would be,” Dorian murmured, squeezing Simon’s shoulder.

“But that would be selfish of me. I won’t hold you back from doing what you need to do.” He’d be disgusted with himself, in fact, if he took advantage of Dorian’s attachment and kept him from the path he wanted, even needed to walk down.

“Because you’re one of the least selfish people I’ve ever met,” Dorian said softly.

Simon shrugged that off. “I came up here to say there’s been talk of a trip to the Grand Tourney in a few weeks. By way of a diplomatic mission to the Marches, putting on a show for the Marcher lords, cleaning up some odds and ends. That would be more than half the distance to the Imperium.” The prospect seemed less of a holiday, if it meant saying farewell to Dorian. But it would, at least, delay that moment as long as was reasonable.

Dorian laughed, with the slightest tremble to it. “An Inquisitorial escort, then?”

Simon managed a smile. “If you like.”

Dorian slid an arm around his shoulders. “You know I do,” he said in a low voice. “And that I’d like nothing better than to stay here.”

Simon shifted his hand to the back of Dorian’s neck. “And I also know that you’ll do a lot of good there.”

“You have such faith in me,” Dorian said, half-wondering.

“Not less than you’ve had in me,” Simon said firmly. It still astonished him, sometimes.

Dorian kissed him, a brief, desperate kiss, and said, “I’ll write to Mae, then.”

“This isn’t goodbye yet,” Simon reminded him, but neither of them let go for some time.


	2. Chapter 2

“My dear Inquisitor! It’s a pleasure to meet at last.”

Simon had prepared himself for a formal greeting with the Prince of Starkhaven, not anything this effusive, as Sebastian Vael clasped his hand and clapped him on the shoulder as if they were old friends already.

He returned the gesture, however, with an answering smile. “Indeed it is, and the Inquisition is most grateful for your support, this past year.”

“I’m happy to be of service,” Sebastian said. “You know, I believe we may even be distant cousins.”

“Are we? I don’t recall Mother mentioning it, but then half the Marcher nobility seem to be relations of one sort or another.”

Sebastian laughed. “I suppose that’s so. Not much of a connection to tie us, after all.”

They had a certain amount in common, though, as Simon recalled from Josephine’s briefing. Both of them had been the rather disregarded youngest of their families, though the Vaels stood several ranks higher than the Trevelyans. Which meant they’d both risen since, unexpectedly.

This hardly seemed the time to dwell on that similarity, though. “Allow me to present my twin, Rory Trevelyan —”

“Ah yes, our Herald, I’m honored.” Sebastian bowed, which Rory returned.

“— and Ambassador Montilyet, who’s made all our arrangements —”

“Lady Montilyet.” Sebastian took Josephine’s hand and bowed low over it. “I knew your wit from our correspondence, but not your loveliness.”

Josephine smiled, with the winning grace of the practiced diplomat. “And I knew your good sense but not your charm, your grace. Thank you for your most kind hospitality.”

“Sebastian is quite sufficient, please.”

Simon continued, “And Lord Dorian Pavus of Minrathous, my good friend.”

“Of Minrathous?” Sebastian said with mild surprise. “Welcome, we don’t often have guests from the Imperium.”

“I promise I don’t bite,” Dorian said, showing his teeth in a way which suggested otherwise.

Simon accidentally-on-purpose nudged him with his elbow as he gestured. “And of course you know Varric already.”

“Indeed,” Sebastian said, smiling down. “Hello, Varric.”

“Sebastian,” Varric replied, sounding bored.

Sebastian smiled wryly, not seeming to expect more, though Rory shot Varric a puzzled glance.

“Our other companions will join us later, after tonight’s festivities,” Simon said. The welcoming banquet promised to be high formality. Sera had blown a raspberry at the mere idea, and had scarpered off toward the taverns. Rainier had joined her, saying he preferred to keep a low profile in genteel company. Simon supposed that was reasonable enough. Cole had wandered off with them. That was the total of the Inquisition party; Leliana and Cullen had remained at Skyhold to manage affairs there, both with some regrets, and the Iron Bull and the Chargers had taken on a mission in Nevarra only a week earlier, preventing them from joining the expedition.

“I shall be glad to show you to your quarters myself,” Sebastian said. “And perhaps you might like to see the palace, once you’ve settled in? There ought to be some time before dinner.”

“We’d be delighted,” Josephine said, accepting Sebastian’s offered arm.

He apparently couldn’t resist starting the tour as they went, pointing out assorted historic features of the building as they went along. Simon dropped back so he could mutter to Varric, “What exactly is your problem, anyway? He seems perfectly affable.”

Varric sighed heavily. “Sometimes people just don’t like each other.”

“You didn’t have to come here, you know. You could have taken off with the others.”

“I could have,” Varric agreed with a shrug. “I wanted to see what the place was like.”

“Well, don’t be obnoxious,” Simon said. Ordinarily he wouldn’t have thought Varric required such a warning.

“Don’t worry. Choirboy’s used to me.”

“Mmm,” Simon said dubiously.

#

The guest quarters were pleasantly enough appointed: comfortable rugs of local make, quilt of Antivan silk, fireplace, view over the city, all quite fine. Dorian shut the door on the thinnest of excuses to retire and refresh himself, that he might wallow in his bad mood alone.

Churlish and rude, no doubt, but at the moment he didn’t much care what sort of impression he might be making.

His stomach had settled since they’d crossed the Waking Sea — and what a misery _that_ had been, only exacerbated by the fact that this time he knew precisely how miserable it was going to be. Simon had promised they’d take the shortest possible sea passage, and the weather hadn’t even been rough, or so they claimed, but Dorian had spent the entire voyage heaving his guts out anyway.

That wasn’t the problem any longer, though. Instead, he was far too aware that every step took him closer to the Imperium; every moment, closer to a parting that his heart rebelled against.

The Imperium beckoned, like one of those beautiful, alluring people that one knows on first sight will be nothing but trouble. As much as Dorian had complained about the south — as much as he missed the best parts of his homeland ( _fountains, vines twining over ancient stones, the scent of ripe apricots, the ability to use magic in public without causing shock and consternation_ ) — he still dreaded the thought of returning.

He’d never before attempted the knife-dance of politics, after all. Debating policy and strategy with Mae or Alexius on a mellow evening over a bottle of wine was not at all the same thing as forging alliances and countering plots in the highest circles of Tevinter society, that Dorian knew perfectly well. He liked to think he’d gained a little knowledge since those speculative discussions, even if it came from watching Orlesians. Particularly from watching the Inquisition tie Orlesians in knots.

He also knew that _watching_ did not always translated to _doing_ , and that the Imperium was not Orlais. Thank the Maker for that much, admittedly.

Besides that, of course, the Imperium also held his family.

Dorian had escaped his father’s clutches once before, he reminded himself. Alone and practically unaided, at that, and he’d gained skill since then, and he had an ally in Maevaris. He was safe, relatively speaking.

None of that quite swept away the memory of being trapped in his own ancestral home, furious and terrified down to the bone when he learned what his father had planned.

He would _not_ be snatched that way again, not ever.

There was also, of course, the coming parting.

Perhaps he would have done better to have left weeks ago, when he’d first made this decision. Torn himself away, made his farewells, set out alone. What was supposed to be a last group expedition, a grand farewell, was instead nearly going to kill him with anticipation. Any moment, any thing they did, might be the last such occasion for months, at least, if not longer.

He ought to be embracing and enjoying it, squeezing every drop of pleasure out of this last handful of days. Instead, he found himself choking on sour dread, too fretful to appreciate anything.

Worst of all, he had no one to blame but himself.

“Dorian? Are you all right?”

Dorian shook himself, realizing he’d been sitting here on the guest room bed mired in a black mood for far too long. Simon stood in the doorway watching him with concern. “You might have knocked,” he said, unable to keep himself from snappishness.

Simon raised his eyebrows and entered the room, closing the door behind him. “I did, actually, and I wasn’t aware you and I stood on ceremony.”

“You might have knocked louder,” Dorian said, and roused himself to something resembling civility with an effort. “No. I’m sorry. Are we needed for dinner?”

“Not quite yet. I wanted to have a word, that’s all. If you’re feeling ill, I can make your excuses.”

It was an appealing thought, but Dorian sighed, shamed by the worry written clear across Simon’s face. Taking the excuse would only stamp the worry there harder, and that he wouldn’t do. “No. I’m perfectly well.”

“Then what? If you don’t want to be here —”

“I’m perfectly fine being _here_ ,” Dorian said. “It’s where I’m going to be next that concerns me.”

Understanding dawned in Simon’s face. “Ah. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have...”

Dorian shook his head. “No, I’m sorry.” He rose, restless, and paced toward the window. He stared out over Starkhaven’s jumble of peaked roofs, imagining white walls and red tile. “I know I’m being a trial. It’s only...” _That I_ _’m afraid to go home_.

Simon moved up behind him and hesitated. “Is there anything I can do?”

If Dorian said the word, he had no doubt Simon would move heaven and earth to join him. He’d offered before. It was an entertaining thought, to watch his amatus charge his way through the might of the Magisterium and the Imperial Chantry, crashing through them like a particularly handsome and charming avalanche. 

Of course, half of the magisters wanted Simon dead already, and a substantial number of _those_ would happily dissect him to take the secrets of the Anchor for themselves. Even if Dorian wanted to trail in the Inquisitor’s wake in his own homeland, which he didn’t, the risk wasn’t worth bearing.

Then again, Dorian could call it all off. He could always return to Skyhold and leave the Imperium to its self-destructive narcissism. If only that narcissism didn’t have a tendency to be destructive of everyone else, too.

No, neither course satisfied. The only thing for it was to continue the path he’d set, and put his own wits and skill to solve the problems he’d been complaining of for years. Fortunate that he had plenty of wits and skill to spare, at least.

“Nothing you’re not already doing,” he said. “I do apologize for my bad temper. I shall endeavor to find a better humor and enjoy what time we have.”

“I was certainly hoping to.” Simon stepped closer and wrapped an arm around Dorian from behind. “My rooms are just across the hall.”

“How splendidly convenient.” Dorian leaned back into the embrace, letting the closeness and warmth chase the dark thoughts from his mind, at least for a little while.

#

“Of course it was going to be one of _those_ sorts of evenings,” Dorian muttered, at Simon’s side.

Simon grinned, waiting for the herald to announce them. “You knew it was going to be. We’re an event.”

“ _You_ _’re_ an event,” Dorian returned.

It wasn’t near the fussy festivity of the Winter Palace, thank the Maker, nor should it be nearly so fraught an evening, at least. Nonetheless, Sebastian had turned out the best of Starkhaven society. Quite likely with a share of guests from around the Free Marches, at that. Everyone in their best, waiting expectantly for the guests of honor.

Which would be, naturally enough, Simon and Rory, both in Inquisition uniform, though Josephine hadn’t insisted on it for the rest of the party. Josephine herself was wearing a gold gown, with a sash and rosette in Inquisition scarlet as a nod to her position. Varric had chosen a red jacket as well, though one in his usual man-about-town style. Dorian’s coat, in contrast, was white, lined in green-and-gold striped silk, the collar standing extravagantly high behind him.

A symbolic departure, only, but the real one would come enough.

Nonetheless, Simon smiled and waved as the Inquisition party was announced, and strode down the stairs to meet Sebastian, dressed in his own sharply cut coat in Starkhaven’s red, black, and white. That he expected; but he was pleasantly surprised to see a dark-haired woman in lavender brocade at Sebastian’s elbow.

“Champion,” Simon said, after making his bow to Sebastian.

“Inquisitor,” Hawke replied solemnly, and then burst into a smile and held out her arms. “Oh, this is ridiculous, let’s not be so formal.”

Simon accepted the hug with a grin. You couldn’t stand on ceremony with someone you’d escaped the Fade with, and besides, he liked Hawke immensely anyway. She was hard not to like. She released him and hugged everyone in the party in turn, exclaiming how good it was to see them, ending by bending low enough to hug Varric tightly. The smile on the latter’s face answered all Simon’s questions about why Varric had bothered to come to this event.

“I wasn’t expecting to see you here,” Simon said to Hawke. “Is Fenris here as well?”

“Yes, he’s just over...” She looked around. “Well, he was here a moment ago. Doubtless I’ll find him soon enough.”

“He probably stepped out to the courtyard,” Sebastian said.

“Yes, very likely,” Hawke said. “Sebastian offered, so we came to see the Tourney. The children too, but they’re up in their rooms for the evening.”

“I can’t imagine formal dinners hold much appeal for children,” Simon said.

“No, indeed, and it’s much easier to enjoy ourselves when they’re not around,” Hawke said, reaching for a glass of wine from a passing servant’s tray. “They’ll like the Tourney, I’m sure.”

Sebastian said, “If I might make some personal introductions, Inquisitor, Herald? There are a number of people who are anxious to meet you.”

“Of course,” Simon said with a smile, accepting a glass of wine from the servant. “We’ll catch up later, Hawke.”

“Looking forward to it,” she said, and went off with Varric at her side, presumably in search of her husband. Dorian and Josephine peeled off as well. Simon momentarily envied the lot of them, though he had no doubt Josephine would be working just as hard as he was at meeting the right people.

Led by Sebastian, Simon smiled and bowed and clasped hands, introduced to Starkhaven notables whose names rang vaguely familiar, to a few visitors from other cities, to a party of Chantry mothers and brothers in full raiment who bowed and murmured how honored they were to meet Andraste’s chosen heralds at last —

— except for one, who said, “We’re hardly new acquaintances, but I certainly never thought Andraste had such plans for my scapegrace little brothers.”

Simon blinked, once and again, mentally setting aside the Chantry robes and headdress, until the smiling face of the woman in front of him, with her honey-amber eyes outlined in fine lines, resolved into something more familiar. “Connie?” he said hesitantly.

“Of course!” she said, opening her arms, and rather to his own astonishment, Simon found himself embracing a sister he hadn’t seen in years. 

“I hadn’t realized the Inquisitor was your brother, Mother Constance,” Sebastian said.

“One doesn’t like to make much of it,” she said, still smiling. “Besides, it’s been such a long time since we’ve seen each other, hasn’t it?”

“I was just thinking that,” Simon said. “What was it — Wintersend some year, surely?”

Constance said, “Hm, I think the last time I was home for Wintersend before you left must have been... 9:36 or so? Before that dreadful business in Kirkwall.” Her expression briefly grew sober. “So that would be six years then, wouldn’t it? Goodness, look how you’ve grown.”

Simon laughed, his wits still slightly scrambled. Connie had been his favorite elder sibling, once upon a time, but he wasn’t prepared to have her looking him over so appraisingly. If she had the dates right, when he last saw her, he’d been twenty, come into his full height but not filled out yet, and still working out what to do with his elbows.

But then again: “Of course, you haven’t seen Rory in even longer,” he said with an edge in his voice, reaching out to draw Rory closer.

They stared at each other, Rory’s eyes large through their spectacles and Connie with a little furrow puckering her forehead. They looked strikingly alike for a moment, both of them probably startled by Simon’s abrupt introduction. “Indeed I haven’t,” Connie said, offering Rory an embrace, too. Rather more tentatively, and Rory returned it gingerly. “I’m sorry,” Connie said, releasing Rory quickly. “You were so young when you went to the Circle, you must hardly remember me.”

“I do remember,” Rory said. “And of course Simon talked of you.”

“He did?” Connie said, turning her attention back toward Simon.

He shifted in place, with a brief surge of guilt, as if he were once again sixteen and hiding his plan to bribe his way into the Circle to meet his twin. “We, ah, contrived to meet every so often, once I was old enough to arrange it.”

“Did you?” Connie smiled faintly. “All for the best, I suppose. When I heard what had become of the Ostwick Circle, I was quite worried,” she said, turning back to Rory. “I made inquiries, but no one seemed to know what had become of you. I only discovered later that you’d found each other. Such a relief — why, I suppose it must have been the Maker’s plan all along, to bring you two back together!” She beamed as if she’d settled the entire problem, and the other Chantry folk with her murmured approval.

Simon rather doubted that the Maker had made the Ostwick templars venial enough to take a stripling youth’s money for visits to his sibling, but held his tongue.

Connie finished, “It is so good to see both my little brothers again. I shan’t keep you longer now, but I do hope we can talk further soon.” She reached out with both hands and squeezed both of them before sweeping away with the rest of the Chantry mothers.

“I need another glass of wine,” Simon muttered, looking around for a handy servant. As if by magic, one appeared with a tray.

“Do you suppose she really wants to talk?” Rory asked, watching after Connie and the others.

“Mother Constance is very well respected in the Starkhaven Chantry,” Sebastian said. “A credit to the order, and known for her charity.”

Simon took a look drink of wine. “How splendid.” He should have been prepared for old acquaintances, he supposed, but no one had called him “little brother” to his face in years.

More bowing and smiling and shaking hands followed, as Sebastian introduced more Starkhaven nobility. Simon knew a few of the Darrows by reputation, at least, and could cheerfully assure the ones attending here of the welfare of their cousin Ser Belinda, a templar now serving with the Inquisition. But he started as Sebastian introduced Lady Alixandra Darrow, resplendent in a green gown that set off her eyes and her tumble of chestnut curls.

“Lady Alix Percy, once, surely?” Simon said, starting to smile.

Alix smiled that dazzling smile that made you feel you’d won a prize simply by pleasing her. “Dear Simon, I’m so pleased you remembered,” she said, standing on her toes to fling her arms around him and peck him on the cheek.

“How could anyone forget you, Alix?” Simon replied warmly, clasping her offered hands.

She laughed, as bright and effervescent as she’d always been. “You flatter me, of course! Have you met my husband, Iain?”

Simon had not, and cheerfully shook hands with Iain Darrow, dark-haired and handsome, if running a little to stoutness; he greeted Simon pleasantly, taking Alix’s arm.

“Congratulations on your marriage,” Simon said. “How long now?”

They exchanged glances, smiling at each other. “Three years, now?” Alix said. “It hardly seems like any time at all. Iain, darling, Simon’s a cousin by marriage, of sorts, you know cousin Gerald married Irene Trevelyan years ago.”

“Ah, that’s right,” Iain said. “Quite a pleasure to meet you, Inquisitor.”

“No need for titles among friends, and the pleasure’s mine,” Simon said with a smile.

“Speaking of friends, my brother’s about somewhere,” Alix said. “Here for the Tourney, in case you wanted to catch up.”

“Derek’s here?” Simon said, a shock running down his spine. Maker, he hadn’t seen Derek in... well, years, again. In spite of himself, his pulse raced. He found himself scanning the crowd for a head of red hair, wondering how his old lover might have changed since they’d met last.

Alix’s reply was lost as a bell sounded, and Sebastian said, “That will mean the first course is ready. Shall we take our seats?”

“By all means,” Simon said.

He was only too glad to do so, at once relieved and disappointed not to run into Derek Percy on the spot. As curious as he was to see how Derek had fared, Simon wasn’t sure he was ready to face the complexities of that particular old tie just yet. As the assembled guests took their seats, Simon took his place at Sebastian’s right, with Rory across from him and Dorian and Josephine close at hand, more than ready for the feast. Perhaps they could even make it through without any other startling appearances.

He’d hardly settled into the first course, however, before a man rose at the end of the table and called out, “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen! It is, I, Philliam, a Bard! Here for your entertainment.”

Murmurs of approval ran through the crowd, but Simon squinted at the bard with an ominous dread sinking into his chest. That... couldn’t possibly be Philip William, could it?

“It is my pleasure and my particular honor to sing in honor of my most blessed Trevelyan cousins tonight!”

“Oh, hells,” Simon said.

“Are we cousins with everyone?” Rory asked.

“Unfortunately,” Simon said.

On the platform at the other end of the hall, Philliam struck a chord.


	3. Chapter 3

“So that very effusive singer is your cousin?” Dorian asked as they made their way up the stairs to their quarters after dinner.

Simon groaned. “I know, I know, he’s dreadful.”

“Oh, I don’t know. I quite liked the part about you saving innocent damsels from being sucked into the Breach.”

Simon laughed, rubbing his temples. “Maker.”

“He doesn’t even know the half of it. I’m half minded to go back down there and tell him some of the really interesting parts.”

“Don’t you dare,” Simon said, and caught Dorian’s arm as he turned, pretending to head back down the stairs from the guest quarters.

“It’ll only take a moment,” Dorian said, laughing. “He really should hear about what the Avvar call you, and the bit with the bear.”

Simon sputtered. “How are you so terrible?” He tugged on Dorian’s arm. When Dorian stumbled, pulled off-balance, Simon caught him, and they both reeled into the wall.

“You like me that way,” Dorian said, on reflex.

“I do,” Simon said, smiling. The flattering glow of candlelight made his eyes darker, cast amber shadows through his hair, and glinted off the golden clasps of the Inquisition uniform. At some point late in the evening, he’d loosened the collar, letting it hang open, revealing a tempting swath of skin at his throat.

Dorian wanted, very badly, to slide his tongue down that strip of skin. But, even tipsy, he was painfully conscious of the palace guards at the foot of the stairs, and that the assorted guest chambers on this hallway weren’t empty. So instead he swallowed, and carefully detached himself, stepping back to get that critical foot or so of distance. “Mustn’t waken the other guests,” he said.

Simon sighed. “I suppose not.” He pushed away from the wall, and they proceeded down the corridor. Side by side, but not touching. Decorously, like guests who were not thinking about peeling formal attire off each other and despoiling the guest room sheets.

Unless that was just Dorian, of course, but he doubted it.

Simon stopped, and Dorian realized with a jolt that they’d arrived at their own doors, which faced each other across the chasm of the hallway. Simon leaned back against his, one hand on the doorknob, and said, “Care to join me?”

Dorian had definitely not been the only one thinking about skin and tongues and cool linen, then. He cleared his throat, affecting a casual pose. “Perhaps just for a moment or two.”

Simon raised his eyebrows. The corner of his mouth quirked up. “You think we’ll be done that quickly?”

The words rang in his ears like a bell-toll: no, what he wanted, so sharply it hurt, was to go slowly, luxuriating in the precious time they had left. “Possibly not,” he allowed.

Simon laughed quietly, and turned the knob. Dorian closed the distance before the door fully swung open.

Formal clothing had so many layers, was the thing;so many buttons and clasps and buckles and ties, belts and sashes over coats over shirts and trousers and boots. Sometimes Dorian was perfectly happy to fuck half-dressed, but tonight he wanted it all off, down to skin. The process went slowly, though, what with Simon nibbling at his earlobe and licking a long swath down his neck.

“You’re not helping,” Dorian complained at one point, lighting the candles and the neatly laid fire in the hearth with a flick of his fingers.

Simon laughed in a way that rolled right down to Dorian’s groin, though it also helped that Simon was squeezing his ass at the time. “Helping how?”

“Helping _undress!_ ” Dorian hissed, retaliating by pressing his thigh between Simon’s legs.

“Oh, well, if you insist...”

They tumbled onto the sheets fully naked at last, the linen cool and crisp against their heated skin. From there everything should have been easy as a dream, but somehow no rhythm came easily. What was it, Dorian thought, only four nights left to them? And then a long cold separation, and they couldn’t afford to waste this night —

“Dorian,” Simon murmured. “Love. Relax.”

“I _am_ relaxed.”

“You’re not, you’re tight as a board, see —”

Dorian stifled a gasp as Simon found a band of drum-tight muscle in his shoulder and pressed. “Very well, point made --”

Simon leaned in and kissed the base of Dorian’s throat. “Stop thinking so much.”

A retort about the dangers of thinking too little leapt to his tongue. Dorian swallowed it back with an effort. Tried not to think about these last days streaming through an hourglass. Soaked in, instead, the weight and heat of Simon’s body, let him press and massage the tightness from his shoulders; made himself relax into the sheets, into the comforting crackle of the fire, into the golden glow of candlelight.

“There we are,” Simon whispered, a breath against Dorian’s skin. “I’m not going anywhere.”

Dorian kissed him instead of sobbing.

Later, the fire in the hearth smoldered low, and Dorian stared into the darkness of the ceiling, running his fingers through Simon’s hair. “I suppose I ought to return to my own room,” he said into the shadows.

“Mmm,” Simon said, and the arm flung over Dorian’s chest tightened. “Must you?”

Dorian hadn’t been entirely sure Simon was even awake. The fact that he was meant Dorian couldn’t simply slip out without talking about it. “Someone might notice.”

“I think Josephine and Rory are on to us already.”

Dorian rolled his eyes, even though Simon, face-down on the pillow, wouldn’t see it. “I meant the palace staff, obviously.”

Simon rolled sideways, propping himself up on an elbow. “Do you really think I care if the entire city of Starkhaven knows you and I are together?”

Dorian huffed at this typical disregard for propriety and reputation — the steps of this conversation were a well-worn dance, practically antique at this point — but a secret little warm glow wormed its way into his heart, regardless.

“Go ahead if you must,” Simon said, settling back down into the pillows. “But it’s awfully comfortable here.”

So it was, and the night was cool even for late spring, so Dorian settled down against his better judgment, and stayed.

Only a few nights left, after all.

#

“And what will we see at the Tourney today, Sebastian?” Josephine asked over breakfast.

“Preliminary events, for the most part,” Sebastian said. “In older times, the Tourney was just one day, but it’s expanded since the end of the Storm Age. These first two days will have horse racing and individual jousting, competitions of strength. Archery, too.” He smiled. “My own favorite, though the prince can’t compete, alas.”

“Competitions of magic?” Dorian inquired. Lightly; he seemed to have set aside the waspish humor of the last few days, to Simon’s relief.

“Ah, no,” Sebastian said. “An interesting idea, though I doubt the Chantry would approve.”

“Doubtless,” Dorian agreed, sipping tea.

“There are quite often such competitions in the Imperium, are there not?”

“There are, of various sorts,” Dorian said. “Competitions, duels. Even the examinations for Enchanter have their share of spectators. There’s also gladiatorial combat, for the less magically inclined. No single event so large as this Tourney. For good reason, of course. The bloodshed would be appalling, even by Tevinter standards.”

Simon snorted, though Sebastian looked as though he wasn’t quite sure how to take this.

Josephine put in, “Well, I for one am most interested in seeing the competition.”

“Have you never attended the Grand Tourney before?” Sebastian asked, regaining his equilibrium.

“No, never, my work has allowed me too little time in the Free Marches.”

“What a pity,” Sebastian said.

Josephine smiled. “And yet it’s a great pleasure to be able to attend this time. Inquisitor? Might we review your schedule for a moment?”

“Hm? Oh, yes, of course,” Simon replied.

 _Reviewing the schedule_ meant that he and Josephine needed a private moment to go over which noble allies and acquaintances they’d expect to see during the day. The journey wasn’t, after all, entirely for pleasure. Making friends and building up the Inquisition’s diplomatic foundation was the task at hand, and that responsibility lay with the two of them. Josephine had made lists: names, ranks, relationships, and other pertinent details. Simon already remembered most of them, fortunately.

“There’s one other thing,” Josephine said once they’d gone done the list.

“What’s that?”

“Your sister, Mother Constance, has sent a note just this morning. An invitation to meet her in her chambers at the Chantry, at your leisure.”

Simon frowned. “Just me?”

“No, the invitation names both you and Rory,” Josephine said. “I can, of course, put her off if you prefer.”

Simon considered that, aware of Josephine’s sympathetic gaze. She, probably more than anyone else in the Inquisition (except Leliana, whose knowledge could never be discounted), was well aware of his fraught relationship with his family. Since his parents and elder siblings had never made any effort to acknowledge Rory’s existence, Simon had taken a spiteful satisfaction in leaving all their letters to Josephine and her staff. But if Connie was willing to correct that old fault... “If it’s for the two of us, that’s all right then,” he said. “Perhaps tomorrow? Mid-afternoon?”

“Of course, I’ll have a reply sent today,” Josephine said, making a note. “I think it’s a good idea,” she added with a smile. Not one of her professional smiles, but one of the real ones she reserved for friends, the kind that showed her dimples.

“That’s because you like your family,” Simon reminded her, smiling back.

“So I do, and they are a great comfort to me.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Even when Yvette is terrible?”

“Oh, Yvette.” Josephine sighed. “She’ll grow out of it. I hope.”

“Well, we’ll see what my sister has to say,” Simon said. “We haven’t any other cousins appearing out of the woodwork, I hope?”

“No... except your, ah, cousin the bard sent a note as well, but it’s merely congratulatory. No requests. He did include a ballad he’s written, however.”

“Merciful Andraste,” Simon said. “Whatever you do, don’t show it to Sera.”

#

The weather was as fine as anyone could ask for; the sun shone out of a nearly cloudless sky, warming the early spring day, as contestants and spectators alike converged on the field of battle. Wooden stands surrounded an oval arena, with shelters piled around providing changing and arming space for the combatants. People streamed into the stands, many of them arrayed in the colors of their home cities, some waving banners or tokens of chosen champions and jeering at adherents of another. Vendors wove through the crowd hawking ale, wine, bread and cheese and fruit and sweet or savory pastries. At a few stands outside the arena, people were clearly placing bets, even at this early stage.

As Sebastian’s guests, the Inquisition party shared the box set aside for the prince, which guaranteed an excellent view of the field. This wasn’t as close to the action as the spectators down on ground level, but Simon wasn’t minded to complain. However, his own passage into the stands was arrested by the need to pause and greet half a dozen of the nobles from Josephine’s list. He let his companions go ahead while he exchanged bows and handshakes and assured various individuals of the Inquisition’s gratitude for their support. Two of them asked for favors, so Simon made noncommittal noises and filed the issues away to discuss with his advisers later.  By then, a good number of the ordinary folk in the crowd were staring and murmuring, so he smiled and waved and generally endeavored to look affable and trustworthy rather than alarmingly heretical. The Inquisition was still riding fairly high in the esteem of most people, after the abrupt re-opening and re-closing of the Breach, but the Inquisition had been less active in the Marches in general. No point in passing up a chance to build up a little good will.

By the time Simon made it to his seat after all that, he’d missed the Tourney heralds’ announcements. A group of lightly clad contestants was already gathering on the field. “What are we seeing?” Simon asked.

“Foot races,” Dorian said, sounding bored. Simon smiled and leaned his shoulder against Dorian’s, subtly.

Varric chuckled. “They do the short sprints first, so they’ll be over fast, Sparkler. And don’t knock it. There’s a couple of highly regarded runners competing today.”

“I knew you followed the competitions,” Simon said, laughing.

Varric shrugged with a smile. “It pays to keep track of talent,” he said, and then the racers were off.

After the sprints, targets were hauled out for the archery competition, which Sera scoffed at: “Try doing that hanging upside down sometime, see how that goes.”

“You should have entered the competition,” Simon told her.

“Don’t need any fancy prizes,” Sera said, but she looked perhaps a little wistful.

Then there were more races, and wrestling. Dorian perked up at the latter, at least, but Simon could tell Rory’s attention was waning. 

“Shall we call it a day?” Simon suggested in early afternoon. “Take a walk through the city, perhaps?”

Sebastian said, “The market during the Tourney is something to see, if you’re interested.”

“Good idea. I’d like to check the bookshops, anyway,” Varric said.

That one caught Rory’s attention. “Books? All right, let’s. What?” they added, to Simon’s grin.

“You’re so predictable,” Simon said.

“I want to see if there’s anything new Cassandra would like,” Rory said defensively.

“That’s very thoughtful, but still predictable,” Simon said, squeezing Rory’s shoulder as they made their way out of the stands.

They weren’t the only ones heading to Starkhaven’s major markets, making it easy to fall in with the crowds of people. Most seemed in a good mood, arguing cheerfully with each other about the results of the day’s competitions. The Inquisition party broke up somewhat as they went. Sera and Rainier drifted ahead of the rest of them, and Cole vanished into the crowd at some point. Simon wasn’t troubled about that; Cole could take care of himself, and would doubtless turn up when they wanted him.

Varric fell in beside Simon. “Listen,” he said. “I’ve been thinking it’s time for me to return to Kirkwall.”

“I can’t say I’m terribly surprised to hear that,” Simon said. Varric had spent most of the previous evening talking with Hawke and Fenris, and it seemed only sensible for him to break off now that they were in the Marches.

“Yeah. I have a lot of business there, still, and a list of problems as long as your arm I need to attend to. Sorry.”

“It’s all right.” Simon clapped Varric at the shoulder. “We’ll surely miss you. You’re one of the last who’s been there since the beginning.”

Varric laughed. “I suppose that’s true with Chuckles and the Seeker off. We’ve come a long way since we were all under arrest, haven’t we?”

Simon snorted. “That’s for certain. Good thing Cassandra’s not a very diligent jailer. You’ve surely given enough time and effort, in any case.”

“I’ll bill you,” Varric said dryly. “But seriously, don’t count me out. If there’s anything you need...”

“Thank you,” Simon said. He _would_ miss Varric, badly. Varric had been perhaps the first person in Haven to act like a friend, not overawed by the twins’ supposed status as Andraste’s chosen. He’d never treated them like specimens or enemies, and had always given useful advice. “Skyhold will definitely be emptier without you.”

“Isn’t everywhere?” Varric said. “You should come up to Kirkwall sometime.”

Simon looked at him sideways. “You do know you’re the only one who has anything nice to say about Kirkwall, don’t you?”

“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t let anyone else show you around,” Varric said.

They reached Starkhaven’s main market district. The streets were lined with shops and stalls, selling nearly anything one could imagine: pennants snapped in the breeze and signs advertised everything from weapons to flowers to jewelry. And the promised books, naturally. It didn’t take Rory and Varric long to find a likely-looking bookshop and disappear into the shadowed interior with Dorian in their wake. Sera and Rainier had disappeared somewhere in the thick of the crowd, too, leaving Simon temporarily on his own. He decided to leave them to it, and ambled along, looking over the merchandise on offer. He paused at a stand selling jewelry, glancing over the wares for something that might be suitable for Dorian, but nothing immediately struck Simon as being the appropriate quality or style.

It was a good idea, though. Something of a parting gift. Or, better, a token of affection... though nothing too obviously so, considering Dorian’s destination. Simon frowned, considering the question of an appropriate gift. Glancing around for another jeweler, he caught a glimpse of Rainier on the other side of the market square, talking with a lean middle-aged man who was gesturing wildly. Simon watched for a moment with narrowed eyes, wondering whether he ought to head over to intervene.

“Simon?”

The voice was familiar enough to send a jolt down his spine, and he turned toward it even as his head was catching up, trying to place a voice he hadn’t heard in — Maker, nearly five years now, could that even be possible?

But it was indeed Derek Percy standing only a few feet away from him, wearing the sort of forest green that particularly set off his red hair.

Simon was abruptly glad that Alix’s remark the night before had given him some warning, because running into Derek without _any_ warning would have had him make even more of a fool of himself. As it was, he still found himself flat-footed enough to blurt, “Derek!” most inelegantly.

“It really is you,” Derek said, in something like amazement. “Simon Trevelyan, as I live and breathe.”

“In the flesh,” Simon said, smiling. Probably idiotically, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. “What have you been doing with yourself, these last few years?”

Derek laughed, flashing a little of the old brilliant smile. He shrugged. “Oh, you know. This and that, here and there. Up in Ansburg for a bit, down round the coast to Hercinia and Markham, you know how it is.”

Simon wasn’t entirely sure he did know what to make of an answer that noncommittal. He was saved from answering, however, as Derek continued, “I’d ask you the same, but all of Thedas knows what you’ve been doing, eh?” He grinned and slapped Simon’s shoulder.

“I suppose you’ve got me there,” Simon admitted with a laugh.

“You look good, though.” Derek gave him an appraising look, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “This Inquisition business agrees with you, it looks like.”

At twenty, Simon probably would have preened under that scrutiny. Today he crossed his arms and said, “As much time as I spend in the saddle and the field, I ought to be in good condition.”

“I’ll say,” Derek said, with another up-and-down glance. “Though I thought it was some sort of politics or Chantry business?”

“That, too,” Simon said. “On top of quite a lot of charging about slaughtering demons, mind you.”

“Demons,” Derek said, as if he couldn’t quite comprehend the concept.

“You must have had some in the Marches,” Simon said. “In fact, I know you have, we’ve had reports, though not recently.”

“Listen to you, all official,” Derek said with a laugh. “Can’t say I’ve seen any demons in my usual haunts.”

“You’re lucky, then,” Simon said. “How have you been, really? You look —” He caught himself, taking a closer look at Derek’s face. More lines about the eyes than he remembered, and the eyes a little more bloodshot than he remembered, too.

“Oh, I’m perfectly splendid. You know me,” Derek said, not seeming to notice Simon’s pause. “I’ve been to all the best clubs and courts in the Marches, and I couldn’t pass up a visit to the Grand Tourney, especially when I could take advantage of my dear sister for a week or two.”

“Still in the social whirl, then,” Simon said, obscurely surprised at how little Derek seemed to have changed in the past few years.

“Naturally, isn’t it the place to be?”

“You’ve never thought about settling down at all?” Simon asked, curious. He must have gotten used to being around people who’d dedicated themselves to some purpose beyond pleasure.

Derek laughed. “Simon, really, we haven’t seen each other in ages, don’t you think that’s premature?”

Simon choked, laughing in spite of himself. “You know I didn’t mean it that way!”

“Oh, obviously.” Derek nudged Simon with an elbow, maneuvering himself closer in the process. “You really should tell me more about those demons, though. Over drinks, perhaps? I know a good tavern nearby.” He smiled, tilting his head.

Simon recognized the invitation at once: for drinks, and more. Once, any time he and Derek encountered each other led to catching up over drinks and then to bed, inevitable as rains flowing toward the sea. He’d been fairly certain that Derek had other lovers — and what of it? So did Simon — but he’d never been able to resist that particular teasing glint in Derek’s eye, whenever Derek happened to flit into Ostwick, all charm and smiles.

Until now, at least, when Simon found he had a certain nostalgic appreciation for the charm, but it didn’t stir much more sentiment than that in him.

“Actually,” he said, “I’m waiting on the rest of my party, but I’ve got a little time to talk, at least.”

Derek slid back half a step, though his smile didn’t break. “Perhaps another time, then,” he said. “Are you free one of these evenings?”

“I’m afraid not,” Simon said. “How’s your family been? You always said you’d have to take up family responsibilities sooner or later.”

Derek wrinkled his nose as if he’d smelled something unpleasant. “Oh, I’ve been dodging those for years. Think they might have given up on me by now.”

“That’s a shame,” Simon said, watching the way Derek was still watching him. He kept half an eye on the door to the bookshop, too, in hopes that Rory or Dorian would emerge. If it was a well-stocked bookshop, though, both of them might easily be hours.

“Hardly,” Derek said. “Listen, though — Maker, what is _that_?”

 _That_ was the Anchor, which had chosen that moment to shine a particularly livid green, and ache besides. Simon winced, shaking out his arm as the sting traveled up his nerves. “Come now, if you’ve heard about the Inquisition, someone must have mentioned the mark.”

“Yes, but I thought they were having me on,” Derek said, staring at Simon’s hand.

Simon laughed. “Not about that, anyway.”

“Andraste’s flaming knickers,” Derek said. He looked simultaneously repelled and fascinated. “And that’s... some kind of passage to the Fade?”

“Half of it, anyway,” Simon said.

“Half of it,” Derek repeated, looking utterly baffled.

Simon could sympathize. “It’s a long story.” He spotted Dorian, then, making his way toward them with easy grace, and his heart lifted at once.

“There you are,” Dorian said, coming up to Simon’s side. “I was beginning to think we’d lost you in the crowd.”

“You’re the ones who disappeared into the bookstore,” Simon pointed out.

“And I didn’t immediately realize you hadn’t followed.” Dorian glanced at Simon’s hand — which had, thankfully, given up glowing for the moment — and then at Derek, who was already looking at Dorian with keen interest. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I’d certainly remember,” said Derek.

Maker. The two of them seemed to be appraising each other at a glance. A dozen nightmare scenarios flashed through Simon’s head, culminating in the two of them taking off together and leaving him standing alone. He cleared his throat. “Dorian. Let me introduce my old friend, Derek Percy, lately of...”

“Just Derek,” said the latter, flashing a smile. “And call it Starkhaven for the moment, since I’m prevailing on my sister’s hospitality.”

“And this is my good friend Dorian Pavus,” Simon finished.

“Pavus,” Derek repeated. “I’m not familiar with that name.”

Dorian smiled, showing a little more teeth than strictly necessary. “Of Minrathous, though my family’s based in Qarinus.”

“Of the Inquisition, more recently,” Simon said to Dorian.

“True.” Dorian’s smile softened slightly.

“Ah,” Derek said, obviously nonplussed. Simon didn’t entirely blame him. In the Marches, one didn’t often meet Tevinter nobility socially. Derek recovered himself quickly enough, however. “A pleasure to meet you. Perhaps you’ve been around for some of these adventures Simon’s been mentioning, then?”

“Oh, yes,” Dorian said, crossing his arms. His shoulder brushed against Simon’s. “This one needs a little magical protection when he’s charging toward danger, as it happens.”

“Distracting danger from coming after you, you mean,” Simon said.

Dorian smirked at him. “I suppose you can put it that way if you like.”

“Sounds... dangerous,” Derek said stiffly.

Simon smiled and shrugged. “Like I said. A lot of demons.”

“You really will have to tell me all about it sometime,” Derek said. “Unfortunately, I’ve got another engagement.”

“Perhaps I’ll see you later at the Tourney, then,” Simon said, though at this point he wasn’t sure he wanted to extend the conversation any further.

“No doubt,” Derek said, with a vague salute and a flash of that brilliant smile. Somehow it didn’t seem to have its old effect on Simon any more.

They said a round of farewells, and Derek made his way off down the street.

“An old friend, you said,” Dorian said.

“Something like that,” Simon replied.

Dorian laughed. “Oh, I’m sure. At least I rate _good_ friend.”

Simon glanced at him sidelong. “I could introduce you otherwise, but you usually prefer to keep things more private.”

“I wasn’t complaining.” Dorian tilted his head, still watching Derek’s wake through the crowd. “I’m curious, though. How old a friend are we talking?”

“Mm. I suppose I must have been seventeen or eighteen when we met.” Simon brushed hair out of his eyes and grimaced. It felt like a very long time ago, and another world. “I haven’t seen him since before we left Ostwick, so that’s four, coming on five years now. And it was never that serious.”

Dorian chuckled under his breath. “No?”

Simon shrugged. Even thinking back to that time felt like trying to put on a suit of clothes that no longer fit. “Both of us expected our families would settle us somewhere, set up a marriage, something. No harm in a bit of fun in the meantime, Derek always said.”

“Mm. You know, I always did wonder how young gentlemen did this sort of thing in the south.”

“Did you?” Simon asked.

Dorian smiled, his eyes shadowed but fond. “It turns out to be very much like how things are done in Tevinter.”

“It seems like a long time ago, now.” Simon reached for Dorian’s hand and gave it a quick squeeze, hoping that would suffice to get across what he meant.

“Everyone has a past,” Dorian said quietly. He squeezed back, and added in a more normal tone: “Shall we go collect the others? That shop has some maps I rather think you might like, actually.”

Simon let out a breath, putting aside the things better said when they were alone. They’d be expected for dinner at the palace before long. “Yes, let’s.”


	4. Chapter 4

“About earlier,” Simon said to Dorian. The moment alone he’d wanted had been hours in coming. First he’d allowed Dorian to drag him off to the bookshop, which had indeed had an interesting stock of maps, some of them quite beautifully drawn. Then he’d helped Rory and Dorian carry their purchases back to the palace. Then there had been dinner, a more private and informal affair than the night before, but with the prince’s household and guests still in attendance, which meant that the evening conversation had stretched on for some time.

Tonight, at least, Dorian had accompanied Simon to his rooms without hesitation. As far as Simon was concerned, Dorian’s own guest room could remain entirely unused for the duration of their stay.

“What about earlier?” Dorian asked. “Is this about what Varric said about Minrathous at dinner? Because I’ll have you know that’s a scurrilous rumor.” He paused. “Most of the time.”

Simon barely remembered the joke at all. “No, I meant this afternoon.”

“Ah.” Dorian paused, turning in front of the fire. “You’re thinking of your... ‘old friend,’ then?”

Simon didn’t miss the ironic inflection on those words. “It really was a long time ago. He and I were involved on and off for a while, but there’s nothing there now, I promise.”

“Oh, I didn’t think there was,” Dorian said, and stopped with his head cocked. “Wait. Did you think I might be jealous?”

“You’re not?” Simon asked, and immediately wanted to kick himself, from the way Dorian smirked at him.

“Do I have reason to be?” Dorian asked, arching an eyebrow. “Because I’m not, but I can pretend to be if you’d like.”

Simon’s brain stumbled to a halt at that. He froze, mouth half-open.

Dorian straightened, putting on a scowl like a mask, and strode forward, crossing the few steps into Simon’s space. “Don’t forget who you’re with now,” he growled, close enough that Simon could feel the heat of his breath, and kissed Simon with near-bruising intensity, his hands tight on Simon’s shoulders. Simon slid his own arms around Dorian to keep his balance under the onslaught.

“As if I _could_ forget,” Simon said once he had a chance to breathe again.

Dorian laughed softly, the affronted pose falling away. “I’ll be glad to remind you.” He frowned for a moment. Simon held his breath, hoping Dorian wasn’t about to succumb to another round of melancholy about his impending return to the Imperium. But instead he said, “Has that encounter been on your mind all evening? Is something about it troubling you?” He brushed a bit of loose hair out of Simon’s face.

Simon sighed, thinking it over. The meeting did linger in his memory, jarring in more ways than one. “It’s odd, that’s all,” he said, trying to find words for it. “Derek doesn’t seem to have changed at all since we were younger. Same style, same manners, same everything.”

“But you have,” Dorian said, nodding.

Simon shrugged. “I suppose I must have. I don’t feel that different. But nothing about him had the effect on me that it used to.”

“You’ve seen and done things that almost no one else has done,” Dorian said, smiling. He was still running his fingers lightly through Simon’s hair. “It would be stranger if you hadn’t grown and changed.”

“Mm, I suppose you’re right.”

“Of course I’m right, I’m always right.”

“Then again,” Simon said, “it could just be that I’m too besotted with you to notice anyone else.”

“And why shouldn’t you be?” Dorian asked, eyes sparkling. “I’ll simply have to make sure you stay that way.” He kissed Simon again, softer this time, and nudged him backward toward the bed, somewhere Simon was more than willing to go.

#

At breakfast the next morning, Rory asked Simon, “Would it bother you if I didn’t come to the Tourney today?”

“No, not if there’s something you’d rather do,” Simon said, fairly sure Rory would rather stay behind with their pile of books. “You’ll be missing — what are we expecting today?”

“Jousting,” Sebastian said.

“And horse racing,” Varric added.

“There you are,” Simon said. “Lots of horses, not exactly your favorites anyway.”

“I don’t mind horses,” Rory protested.

“That doesn’t mean you want to watch them all day,” Simon said. “We’re supposed to meet Connie this afternoon, though, don’t forget. I could come back here to meet you, if you like.”

Rory agreed to that, and retreated back to their room, where their newly acquired books doubtless awaited them. Simon half expected Dorian to beg off as well, but he set off for the Tourney with Simon and the rest of the party cheerfully enough. He seemed in a much better humor than when they’d arrived in Starkhaven, sitting next to Simon and providing a sarcastic commentary on the sartorial choices of the riders and jousting nights. Simon let their shoulders brush, listening with amusement, and tried to soak it in: the thrill of the race, everyone joking and betting and enjoying themselves. The kind of relaxed day they’d had far too seldom, and which he wished could have lasted much longer.

All too soon, the appointed time arrived, and Simon headed back to the palace to collect Rory. As he left the merriment of the Tourney behind, he found himself unaccountably uneasy. The meeting they were about to have made him feel strung tight, and he almost fancied someone was following him. He walked faster, trying to settle his nerves.

This was ridiculous. He could talk to his own sister for an hour or two. He’d managed as much with Orlesian nobles whose obnoxiousness exceeded anything Connie was likely to do.

None of them _were_ his sister, though, and there would be only himself and Rory, no one else to pass the conversation to. Nobles were easier, in their way; they wanted to see and be seen with the Inquisitor, they generally wanted predictable advantages for themselves and their families. He wasn’t sure what to expect from Connie.Simon had spent so long resolutely avoiding his family — except for Rory, of course — that he had no idea how to go about talking to her. Unlike Derek, Connie didn’t seem stuck in the past. She’d grown, and had certainly come into a respected place in the Chantry. But she’d also been part of the whole family system he’d run away from.

He wondered if it would be harder or easier for Rory, who could treat her more or less as they would a stranger.

At the palace, Simon went up and knocked on Rory’s door. Rory answered a moment later, blinking owlishly and looking somewhat ruffled. “Ready?” Simon inquired.

“Is it time already? Just a moment...”

Rory disappeared and re-emerged a few minutes later with freshly combed hair. The two of them set off. The walk from the palace to Starkhaven’s Chantry wasn’t long, though the route required going down and up hill. Simon found it was good to stretch his legs after all the rich food and sitting of the last few days, however.

“So, was it romances or magical research this time?” he asked as they walked.

Rory’s choked silence answered the question for him.

“Don’t worry, I won’t tell,” Simon said.

“I picked up a few things for Cassandra, and I wanted to make sure she’d like them, that’s all,” Rory said.

“Oh, naturally,” Simon said. “I’m sure you weren’t at all curious what happened.”

Rory said, “I looked at Josephus’ treatise on Fade spirits, too.”

Simon grinned. “You can read whatever you like.”

“Thank you,” Rory said with dignity.

“Whatever squishy, romantic bits of fluff you like.”

Rory sighed.

The Chantry loomed before them by then, imposing in gleaming white marble. A query to the first lay sister they saw quickly directed them toward Mother Constance’s private study, a comfortable and tidy room where Connie already had tea waiting. She greeted them warmly, with another round of hugs, and poured tea while they settled themselves. “How have you been enjoying the Tourney?”

“It’s been splendid,” Simon said sincerely. “It’s good to have a respite after the last few months.”

“You’ve indeed borne a great burden,” Connie said. “All of Thedas owes the Inquisition a debt.”

“It’s good of you to say so,” Rory said.

“Mother’s very proud of both of you, of course,” Connie said.

“Is she indeed,” Simon said flatly, skeptical.

Connie sipped her tea. Her shoulders rose and fell the barest amount. “Of course. In her way.”

Their mother had little interest in anything that did not advance the family’s social standing, as far as Simon could judge. He considered saying so.

“Surely she’s written?” Connie asked.

“Oh, there are so many letters,” Simon said, carelessly. “Secretaries handle most of them before they get to us.” It was true enough, though the secretaries had also been specifically charged with handling all correspondence from the Trevelyan family themselves, after that first sanctimonious letter had arrived at Skyhold.

Connie’s eyebrows rose, but she only said, “I see.”

Rory cleared their throat. “And how is the rest of the family?”

That was polite, considering Rory didn’t have much investment in the Trevelyan name or family. Small wonder, given how thoroughly the family had cut Rory off. Growing up in the Circle hadn’t encouraged Rory to have much attachment to the relatives they’d left behind. One of the things Simon found eternally baffling about Rory was how little resentment Rory seemed to feel about any of that. To Rory, their family’s neglect just _was_ , a fact of life that they bothered them as little as a change of clothes.

It bothered Simon, though. He was more than capable of carrying the grudge for both of them, if Rory wouldn’t, and didn’t mind doing it in the slightest.

Himself being surly right now forced Rory to be the one to carry on polite conversation, though, and that wasn’t fair.

He roused himself enough to make civil conversation. Connie talked about how Irene had taken on more of the family responsibilities recently, since Father seemed inclined to retire and devote himself to the country estate, which had only ever been a summer retreat in Simon’s childhood. Irene had two children by now, a son and a daughter, and their elder brother Martin had married a few years earlier and already had one son. Apparently he and his wife were planning on quite the brood, as if the world were desperately in need of more Trevelyan cousins.

It was all ordinary enough. Banal, even. As they talked, Simon tried to see the sister who’d left for the Chantry when he was a boy. Connie had been the most indulgent of their older sibs once, or perhaps only the one most often told off to occupy the younger children. Irene and Martin had always been too old for childish games, and that distance had never closed as Simon grew older. Alroy, closest to the twins’ own age, had been a brat and a bully even before he’d become a templar.

Rory asked Connie about her own work, and she spoke of the relief they’d sent to Kirkwall: “It’s been very difficult there, after losing the Chantry. Which was hardly ever enough in itself, but we had to rebuild a great deal just to get food and medicine to the poor of the city. There’s still so much need.” Connie sighed. “But you must tell me more about the Inquisition. It’s hard to believe even half of the stories, you know.”

Simon and Rory exchanged glances. “That depends on which stories you’ve heard,” Simon said, laughing.

“We’ve been a little removed from most of these affairs here in the Marches, but it was truly an ancient blighted magister who created this Breach?”

“As near as we can tell,” Simon said.

Connie digested that. “And... it’s said you both went into the Fade and returned?”

“Truly a fascinating place,” Rory murmured, and sipped their tea.

“Mostly it’s been a lot of politics and peacekeeping, and fighting demons,” Simon said, giving her an easy smile. Most people didn’t like thinking too much about the more arcane matters they’d handled.

“Fighting demons?” Connie repeated, looking over both of them with some concern.

“You must not have had a lot of rifts in this area. Generally rifts spill out demons until they’re closed, but you also can’t close them until you destroy all the demons in the vicinity.”

“I... see,” Connie said, not looking less concerned.

“We’ve had a lot of practice,” Simon said.

“I admit that was never something I would have expected when you were children,” Connie said.

Simon shrugged. “We live in strange times.”

“The Maker’s ways are mysterious,” she said, shaking her head. “It’s also said you have the ear of the new Divine?”

Simon glanced at Rory, who smiled fondly and said, “Cassandra — well, Seeker Pentaghast then — worked closely with us in the Inquisition before she was raised to Divine.”

Connie nodded. “She has quite a reputation, of course, but I’ve never had the honor to meet her. What is she like?”

Cassandra would literally kill Simon if he breathed a word about her penchant for torrid novels now. “She has great faith and determination,” he said, containing himself.

“She was not ordained before, of course,” Rory said. “But she takes the responsibilities of her office very seriously. You may trust that.”

“I shall,” Connie said. “What a relief to have a Divine again, after so long without one, and one known for her integrity besides. Tell me, is she planning on filling the vacancies among the Grand Clerics soon?”

Simon looked at her sharply, his eyes narrowing.

“Oh, certainly,” Rory said. “I believe it’s quite on her mind. Many local Chantries have been far too long without able leadership.”

Connie nodded. “True, and it’s a terrible shame. The Marches longer than most, since Justinia never appointed a successor to Elthina. Maker rest them both.” She bowed her head piously.

All at once he felt as though he were back in Orlais playing the Game. Simon said, “Connie, is that what this is about?”

“Is that what what is about?” she asked.

“This. This meeting.” Gritting his teeth, he waved a hand, encompassing the cozy study. “Are you angling for a promotion, or catching up with your siblings?”

“Does it have to be one or the other?” she asked calmly.

“I should have expected this.” He pushed his unfinished cup aside and rose. “Thank you for your hospitality, but I’ll be going now.”

Rory rose as well, looking concerned. “Simon...”

“If you’ve indeed been engaged in politics for the last year and a half, I would have thought you’d know how the world works by now,” Connie said. _Mother Constance_ said, still in her seat, with her back straight and her chin held high. “Who one knows matters. There _are_ too many openings in the upper clergy, and no one yet has the measure of the Divine. Can you truly blame me for inquiring?”

Simon laughed, darkly. “Connie, you may have been my favorite sister, but you should remember Irene is your only competition.”

“ _And_ I can wish to see the younger siblings I haven’t seen in years,” she said, standing now. “At the same time. Is that so hard to believe?”

“It is when the family hasn’t given a hang about either of us our entire lives, except for how we might serve the family’s interests,” Simon said, and had the pleasure of seeing shock mar her practiced Chantry calm for a second. “As that’s what you’re really interested in discussing, I believe we’re done here.”

He stalked out, making his way through the corridors at the back of the Chantry. He reached the open worship space before he realized Rory hadn’t followed. Simon stopped short and waited, fuming, trying to absorb some calm from the quiet space and the serene face of Andraste. Why did Chantry art always have her looking so placid, anyway? Her whole life had been adventure, conflict, betrayal, and a hideous death.

Rory arrived a few minutes later, looking slightly harried.

“I’m not apologizing,” Simon said, keeping his eyes on Andraste.

“I wasn’t going to say you should.”

“Good.”

“She’s not wrong, though.”

Simon turned to Rory in disbelief. “Not wrong? To angle for a favor when she hasn’t seen either of us in years?”

“What do all the nobles do? Favors for favors, favors for coin, favors for armed support. The Chantry’s not so different.” Rory spread their hands. “She didn’t even ask outright.”

“She was working up to it,” Simon muttered.

“She wouldn’t even be a bad choice for Grand Cleric,” Rory said. “She’s right, Kirkwall hasn’t had its Chantry leader since the last Grand Cleric died, and Connie’s done a lot of good there. I asked Sebastian and some of the other clerics the other night. She’s perhaps a little young for such a high post, but the Chantry could do much worse.”

Simon sighed. “You’re being so calm and reasonable.” It quite squelched Simon’s irritation, leaving only a dull disappointment behind.

“I’m... sorry?” Rory said.

“Just once it would be nice if we had a relative who cared about us beyond what we could do for them.”

Rory squeezed his shoulder. ”I don’t really mind about me. But I’m sorry it bothers you.”

“It’s all right,” Simon said wearily. “I should know better, that’s all.”

“Come on,” Rory said. “Let’s head back to the palace.”

#

After dinner, Sebastian said, “Inquisitor, might we have a word in private?”

Simon was taken aback but managed not to show it. He and Rory had returned to the palace after a walk through the city to find their friends also returned from the Tourney. A few rounds of cards and another informal dinner had done wonders to restore his good humor. Sebastian’s question made an unexpected interruption in the evening’s camaraderie.

But he said, “Certainly, your grace,” and followed the prince to his private study, leaving the rest of the party slowly breaking out of their genial conversation.

The prince’s study was a comfortable space, the desk positioned to catch morning sun from the window, now shuttered against the evening chill. The desk’s ledgers and papers were neatly stacked, and the room’s shelves held a few rows of books and an assortment of oddments. Keepsakes, Simon supposed, still wondering why he was there. From behind the desk, Sebastian produced a bottle of amber liquid and offered it inquiringly.

Simon nodded. “Thank you, your grace.”

“Please, just Sebastian,” he said, getting out two glasses and pouring.

“In that case, you have to drop the Inquisitor business,” Simon said, glancing around and bracing himself for some request. Not an overly burdensome one, he hoped, but Sebastian had provided both assistance and hospitality to the Inquisition. He surely deserved something in return if he wanted it. “Is there something I can do for you, Sebastian?”

“Oh, no, I only wanted to talk for a bit,” Sebastian said. “We haven’t had much opportunity for it.”

Simon accepted the offered glass. “That’s true, I’ve been remiss.” He took a sip: Starkhaven whiskey, doubtless, and excellent.

“Not at all, it’s a festive occasion, and we both have many friends present,” Sebastian said, smiling. “But I didn’t want to let the whole visit fly by.”

They both drank, savoring the flavor. Simon was about to ask Sebastian what he wanted to talk about when Sebastian broke the silence. “It must be a peculiar thing, being one of Andraste’s chosen. Unless perhaps you don’t believe it was Andraste that placed you where you are?”

Simon laughed briefly. He’d lost count of the number of times he’d had variations on this conversation. “Oh, I didn’t, at first. In the beginning, everyone around us seemed to believe, but it always felt absurd to me. How could Andraste have grand plans for the likes of me? Of us? I certainly didn’t feel particularly important or clever, or skilled.”

“But you carried on,” Sebastian said.

“There wasn’t much else to do. The marks seemed to be the only solution to the Breach. The only one we had, at any rate. So we muddled along as best we could. And then the Breach was closed, and then.” Simon shrugged. “Somehow we kept going along. Most people know the rest of that by now.”

“People know what’s been said, at least.” Sebastian laughed softly. “Don’t forget, I have a little experience being on the inside of a story. I know that what’s said isn’t the whole of it.”

Simon grinned. “Care to share anything Varric left out? He keeps threatening to write another one about the Inquisition.”

“That’ll be something to see,” Sebastian said with a chuckle. “And no. Not... left out, but I suppose I would have told Hawke’s story differently.”

“I gather Hawke might, as well.” In person, Hawke was surprisingly unassuming. It was sometimes hard to match the earnest, kind-hearted woman who puttered in Skyhold’s garden and giggled over her drink with the charismatic hero of Varric’s story.

“If she told it, she’d hardly be in the story at all.” Sebastian sipped and hesitated. “Pardon me if I presume, but you said you didn’t believe Andraste had chosen you... at first. What about now?”

“Now...” It was Simon’s turn to drink, buying time. “On the one hand, I’ve seen things which would seem to prove Andraste was nowhere near the conclave that day. On the other...” He shrugged. “Varric said once there had been too many coincidences. Perhaps he’s right.” Coincidences, brushes with death, good and bad fortune flung across into their laps. “So I suppose I don’t know, when it comes down to it. But I’ll say I don’t know, rather than denying it.”

Sebastian nodded, slowly. “Fair enough.”

“Mind you, I still think, if Andraste pushed us onto this road, she has a better sense of humor than the Chant ever led me to think.”

Sebastian laughed at that. Simon drank, watching the other man for a moment, and said, “Do you mind if I ask why you’re asking?”

“Ah.” Sebastian glanced around at the office. “You and your twin found yourselves in a position of power, unanticipated. That caught my attention when I heard of it. Even besides the matter of the Breach.”

“You felt our positions were similar?” Simon said, understanding.

“A little.” Sebastian smiled wryly. “I was the youngest. Something of a disgrace before my family sent me to the Chantry.”

“As was I,” Simon said. “Or nearly the youngest, since Mother preferred not to think about her child in the Circle. They never quite got round to sending me to the Chantry, though.”

Sebastian chuckled. “Yes, I was struck by the parallel, when I heard. I embraced my life as a Chantry brother, while I had it. And then the assassins came for my family, and I too found myself in an unanticipated position.”

Simon nodded. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you. It’s some years past, now,” Sebastian said. “I used to pray for Andraste’s guidance, but never received anything I understood as a message. For a time, I tried to pursue Starkhaven, while doing my duty as a Chantry brother. I always knew I would have to choose, in time, but I lacked... clarity.”

“I can’t say I’ve had much clarity, except perhaps about what was right in front of me. Fight that demon, close that rift, talk to that person. I leave the magic and mystery to Rory, as much as I can.” Simon closed his left hand into a fist and opened it again, frowning at his palm. The Anchor was only the faintest of green glimmers beneath the skin. “I don’t think I’ve gotten any more clever, but I’ve gained skill, at least.”

“Sometimes I think that’s about all we can hope for,” Sebastian said. He held up the bottle, inquiring with his eyebrows.

Simon let Sebastian fill his glass a second time. Looking for a lighter topic, he said, “Have you attended the Grand Tourney before?”

“Twice, in my youth. Before the Chantry. I competed in archery one year.” He smiled in reminiscence.

“How did you do?”

Sebastian shrugged. “Well enough to be pleased, though I didn’t take the prize. Had you ever attended before?”

“No.” Simon drank. “I meant to compete, some years back. I broke my arm the week before the Tourney.”

Sebastian shook his head. “What a shame to miss the chance.”

“I doubt I would have done particularly well. It’s a far more tempting prospect now.” After over a year of testing himself against demons, red templars, dragons, and Cassandra, he liked his chances a good deal more.

Sebastian chuckled. “I can understand that. I’d gladly join in myself, if not for my position.”

“Exactly,” Simon said and sighed. “I know, I know, persons of rank shouldn’t be scrapping against ordinary folk, but still. One warrior in a closed helmet, no one need even know. It’s hard to see the harm.”

“Mm, less feasible for an archer.”

“True.” Simon considered. “Ah, just a bit of a daydream. My gear’s far too distinctive.”

“Well...” Sebastian said slowly. “I suppose I might assist on that score.”

“Oh?”

Sebastian opened a desk drawer and fumbled in it for a moment, before tossing something Simon’s way. He caught it on reflex, and found himself holding a small key. “The key to the armory,” Sebastian said, smiling warmly. “Between you and me, eh?”

Simon laughed. “You’re a most generous host indeed.”

“Pass it back to me when you have what you need, if you please.”

“Certainly.” Simon drained his glass and rose. In the morning he could visit the armory. For now he’d tarried long enough. “And now I should bid you good night.”

He headed toward the guest wing feeling pleasantly mellow. At the top of the stairs, he hesitated for a moment before rapping quietly on Dorian’s door.

No response.

Simon crossed the hall and opened his own door, and found that Dorian had claimed the most comfortable-looking armchair for his own. He sat reading, feet propped on an embroidered footstool, a ball of light floating beside his head.

“There you are,” he said without looking up from his book. “I was beginning to think the fish-and-egg pie had trapped you in the privy.”

“I believe it’s something of a Starkhaven delicacy,” Simon said, unfastening his jacket.

“It’s a Starkhaven abomination, is what it is.”

“You made yourself at home, I see,” Simon said, obscurely comforted by that fact. He shed the jacket and crossed to the wardrobe to hang it up. “I was having a word with Sebastian in his office, that’s all.”

“Ah.” Dorian looked up as Simon approached and bent over the chair. “Having a word isn’t all you were doing, I see.”

“We might have dipped into the prince’s private reserve.”

They kissed, long and slow, warmth gathering and spreading from lips to chest in a sweeter burn than the whiskey. Dorian wound his fingers around the back of Simon’s neck, keeping him from going far even when the kiss broke off.

“I should be put out that you tried that private reserve without me,” he said in a low voice.

“Mm, I’m sorry. Perhaps I can make it up to you?”

Dorian put the book aside, smiling. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”


	5. Chapter 5

“Dorian.”

“Nnngh.” Dorian cracked open an eye, saw gray dawn light, and drew the cocoon of bedding up around his head. There was no call to be awake this early.

Warm lips brushed his ear. “I’m going out. Early training session. I’ll see you later? At the arena?”

“Fine,” Dorian mumbled. “Go hit things.”

Simon laughed. Dorian rolled over and pulled a pillow over his head. Morning exercise, ugh. Appalling.

Safely insulated from the sunlight, he drifted back to sleep as the door closed.

“Dorian. DORIAN, you lazy sod, get your arse up.”

Somebody cruelly yanked the pillow away and took half the covers along with it. Brilliant sunlight streamed over the bed, a brilliant yellow glow filling the room. Somebody jabbed Dorian in the ribs. He yelped and sat up, blinking into the light.

“Wake the fuck UP, arsehole!”

“I’m awake,” Dorian snapped, and squinted into the glare, which shone off straw-colored hair and a highly questionable taste for scarlet and plaid. “Sera? What are you doing in here?’

Sera snickered. “Knew you were sleepin’ in here. _Some_ people thought they’d knock all polite-like on the door that’s supposed to be yours. See where that got ‘em.”

“Yes, yes, you’re very clever. Why are you waking me up?” Wishing he were awake enough to muster a better retort, Dorian ran his hands over his hair, vaguely trying to pat it into order.

“’Cause we’re supposed to go to the arena and watch folks beat on each other. Figured you didn’t want to miss it, like you did breakfast.”

“Did I?” Not as if he really needed breakfast, anyway. Food was sold at the arena all day long.

“ _Yes_ , for real, now get up.”

“I will,” Dorian said, keeping the remaining covers clutched around his waist. “Now get out.”

“Like you’ve got anything I care about seeing anyway,” Sera said, but she sauntered off toward the balcony.

Dorian narrowed his eyes. “Sera! _How_ did you get in here?”

“Climbed,” she called back, already climbing over the balcony railing. “Prince’s security is shite.”

“Be sure to tell him so,” Dorian called after her.

Ordinarily Dorian took more care about his morning toilette. Today, mindful that Sera might burst back into the room any moment she took it into her head, he washed, shaved, and tidied his hair at lightning speed, dashed across the hall for clean linens, and made his way down the stairs in only a fraction of his usual preparation time.

Sera was lounging against the wall, looking bored. Rainier, Varric, and Rory waited in more decorous fashion, the last with a book tucked under their arm. Dorian paused, mildly surprised to find Simon and Josephine both absent.

“There you are! Now we can go!” Sera declared, shoving away from the wall.

“We’re not waiting for the others?” Dorian asked.

“Ruffles went ahead with the prince,” Varric said.

“Good for her,” Dorian said, amused by that pair’s mild flirtation.

Rory said, “Simon’s not with you?”

“Oh.” Still half-fogged with sleep, Dorian took a moment to recall the conversation of a few hours earlier. “He went out before. Something about an early training session.” He curled his lip in disdain.

“Well, that’s enterprising,” Varric said, sounding more amused than approving.

“Ah. He hasn’t gotten much practice in since we’ve been traveling,” Rory said. “He’ll meet us at the arena, then?”

“I suppose so.” Dorian frowned, trying to remember the brief conversation. “Yes, I believe that’s what he said.”

“Today’s all individual and team matches,” Rainier said. “Leads up to the Grand Melee tomorrow, but should be some excellent swordsmanship today. He won’t want to miss it.”

“Come on, let’s _go_ ,” Sera said.

When they arrived, the stands around the field of combat were already crowded with people, a bright riot of colors and accents mingling under a sky that was warming rapidly. Sebastian and Josephine were indeed already in place in the prince’s box, Josephine fanning herself with a lace-covered fan.

“They’ll come out in groups today,” Rainier explained as they took their (cushioned, thankfully) seats. “Twenty and twenty. One-on-one matches, the victors matched again later. The best will go on to the Grand Melee tomorrow.”

“The worst will get knocked on their asses, but at least they can say they fought in the Grand Tourney,” Varric said.

“Used to be just the one day,” Rainier said. “These days so many want to compete that a second day was added to weed them out.”

“Those who’ve won prizes at previous Tourneys aren’t required to compete for this day,” Sebastian added.

Sera scoffed. “Lazy sods.”

“Lazy? They’re the best warriors in the Marches.”

Below, the gates opened, as Sera and Rainier kept up their good-natured bickering. The first waves of warriors marched in, in assorted armor and colors, variously armed. They stood at attention while the heralds announced the opening of the day, and the crowd’s chatter settled into a lower buzz.

There were plenty of strapping physiques on display, but Dorian found himself growing bored rapidly. Most of these early bouts seemed to be over rather quickly. No matter how much combat he’d participated in, Dorian lacked much appreciation for the nuances of swordplay. Even Rainier’s muttered commentary didn’t fill in enough details. Dorian entertained himself for a while by imagining what spells he’d use to disable the combatants slashing away below. Meanwhile, Varric and Sera seemed to have fallen into a betting game, with Josephine occasionally chipping in. Cole was making his picks as well, but, being Cole, seemed to be doing it entirely on the basis of the qualities of the warriors’ helmets.

Dorian waved over one of the youths hawking food about the stands, and bought a couple of currant-studded pastries by way of breakfast.

“It’s odd Simon hasn’t gotten here yet,” Rory murmured, glancing up from the book they’d carried along.

Dorian swallowed a mouthful of crumbly pastry, which seemed to stick in his throat. It _was_ odd. Surely any practice would have finished by now, wouldn’t it? No one would keep up practice once the day’s events began.

“It’s a shame he’s missing all the action,” Rainier said.

“At this point, he’s mostly missing the scrubs,” Varric said.

Frowning, Dorian glanced around the stands, wondering if Simon had gotten waylaid by an old friend. Or an “old friend,” as the case might be. There were more than a few red-haired men in the crowd, but he didn’t spot Simon’s familiar figure near any of them.

On the field below them, the latest bout began. Out of the corner of his eye, Dorian saw Rainier stiffen and lean forward, peering into the fighters’ ranks. He tried to make out what the man was looking at, but with so many people moving about, it was difficult to tell. All the striking and parrying and circling tended to blend together.

One of the combatants directly in front of them, however, distinguished himself by slamming his shield into his opponent, knocking the fellow sprawling. The victor took a half step back, sword still raised, braced for more, though his downed opponent was still rolling about on the ground.

Wait. Hadn’t Dorian seen that maneuver somewhere before?

He blinked and narrowed his eyes, trying to get a better look. The move had to be a standard part of a swordsman’s technique, surely.

Rainier said quietly, “You see it, too?”

“I’m not sure what I see,” Dorian said. At his side, Rory rubbed their forehead absent-mindedly, frowning down at the arena.

The fallen fighter signaled surrender. The victor relaxed his stance, rolling his neck and shoulders in a familiar way.

Though probably a lot of people did that, too?

The warrior offered a hand to his opponent and hoisted the man up, clapping him on the shoulder with his free arm. He wore nondescript heavy armor, typical of what the Starkhaven guards had been wearing. There was nothing particularly distinctive about his weapons, either.

But. His height and build were about right. And the movements.

And, as he started toward the victors’ gate, he turned and looked straight at them. Or, at least, his helmet seemed to be pointed directly at him.

“Fasta vass,” Dorian muttered.

“I wasn’t sure at first,” Rainier said.

“Sure about what?” Sera asked, emerging from her conversation with Varric.

Dorian nudged Rory’s shoulder. “Simon’s not up here because he’s down there.”

“What?”

Dorian tipped his head toward the armored figure heading toward the gate, who glanced back at them one more time before proceeding through. Rory stared after him as if they could see through the wall. “Are you sure?”

Rainier explained quietly to the others. “The Inquisitor’s among the combatants.”

“No, for serious?” Sera asked.

“It’s a surprise!” Cole proclaimed with delight.

Rory pulled their gaze away from the closed gate. “Josephine, is this going to cause a problem? Diplomatically, I mean?”

Josephine drew in a breath, though her expression remained serene. “Normally, it wouldn’t do for persons of rank to participate in the Tourney. For one thing, there’s the risk of harm —”

“It’s a friendly competition, milady,” Rainier said.

“Nevertheless,” she said. “But for another, there’s the problem of... social balance. The competition should be honest and aboveboard, based on skill.”

“If you think nobody’s thrown anything here ever, you’re got another think coming,” Sera said.

“Be that as it may,” Josephine said. “No one should fear that their opponent might bring the weight of their position against them, on or off the field.”

Sebastian said, “But this is a different situation. Fighting in disguise eliminates those repercussions.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Josephine allowed.

“Besides, it makes a good story,” Sebastian added.

Varric chuckled. “That’s supposed to be my line, Choirboy.”

“I steal from the best,” Sebastian said with a smile.

Varric’s eyes narrowed. “Flatterer. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about this little stunt, would you, Sebastian?”

“What makes you say that?”

All of them turned to look at the prince, who kept watching the action innocently enough. A faint smile played about his lips, though.

Varric leaned back in his seat, smiling. “None of that’s his usual gear.”

“Not bloody shiny enough,” Sera added.

“It sings of dark places and high places,” Cole murmured.

“He had to get that armor from somewhere, and it looks similar enough to the Starkhaven guards, so...” Varric looked speculatively at Sebastian, raising his eyebrows.

Sebastian hesitated, smiling, and then shrugged. “I may have lent the key to the armory.”

“You supported this scheme?” Josephine asked.

“We talked of it last night,” Sebastian said. “I saw no harm in it.”

 _Last night, over drinks_ , Dorian supplied, to himself, remembering Simon and his whiskey. Perhaps he should have suspected something at the time. “Splendid, then,” he said. “He’ll get to enjoy himself. If he wins, it’s all to the good, if he loses, no one need be embarrassed or alarmed, yes? He can take off the helmet and everyone can have a good laugh. Shall we sit back and enjoy the carnage?” He rather looked forward to the spectacle, now that he wasn’t fretting over where Simon had gotten to.

“It’s a skilled competition, not bloody murder,” Rainier said.

“You’re mistaking this for Tevinter again, Sparkler,” Varric said.

“Only one thing,” Sebastian said. “If the disguise is going to work, the rest of you mustn’t give the game away.”

“I’m definitely going to have to lay some bets, though,” Varric said, glancing around the stands.

“For or against?” Dorian asked. The latest bout was breaking up; they’d ignored an entire round while they talked.

Varric laughed. “I know better than to bet against either Trevelyan by now.”

Rory looked startled at that. They glanced toward the gate where the competitors were entering for their second round.

“He probably won’t be back right away,” Rainier said. “Got to have a bit of a rest between rounds.”

“That would have been nice out in the field,” Rory said.

“A pity Venatori and red templars don’t agree,” Dorian said.

They chatted their way through the next round or two amiably enough. It was enjoyable, really, as the day warmed and the sun shone down, to lounge in one’s seat and watch a lot of strapping warriors beat each other for one’s amusement. Dorian could hardly complain.

It would have been more entertaining with Simon at his side, naturally, but at least he didn’t have to worry about Simon’s absence. This scheme was entirely typical for the man who’d once taken down a bandits’ nest with nothing more than their small field party, and who trained with the Iron Bull for fun. Each time the next group of competitors filed onto the field, to the cheering and catcalls of the crowd, Dorian watched with heightened interest, ticking over each one until — ah, there.

Now that he’d spotted Simon, he wondered how he hadn’t done so earlier. Blame it on the larger groups of the opening rounds, he supposed. When Dorian really looked, there was no armor anonymous enough to disguise the familiar easy stride, or the way he held his head and shoulders, looking around to size up the competition. He could all too well imagine Simon grinning behind his helmet, pleased with his bit of subterfuge, shaggy hair damp with sweat and clinging to his brow.

Hm. Perhaps best not to imagine such things just yet.

“I’m surprised I didn’t spot him before,” Rory murmured.

Dorian laughed. “I was just thinking the same thing.”

“Is that him?” Sera asked, leaning forward and peering down.

“Remember,” Sebastian said, in an undertone.

Sera made a rude noise and settled back into her seat.

In spite of Sebastian’s warning, their whole party watched that particular pair of combatants with various degrees of poorly concealed interest. Dorian fancied that he wasn’t seeming to pay the bout too much attention, but neither Sera nor Cole was carrying off “interested detachment” particularly well.

Fortunately, this second bout of Simon’s went much as the first had. He drove his opponent back toward the wall in the first focused rush, and had the man down in a few more strikes, his sword at the other man’s throat. They must have exchanged words for a moment, long enough for the fallen man to yield, as Simon withdrew and offered him a hand up.

Gracious in victory, well done, amatus... but it was still over almost too fast. However those others present had trained, they couldn’t have spent the last year and a half testing their skills against the likes of Cassandra or Bull, or even Rainier. Nor could most of them have faced the unending string of battles that the Inquisition had. Dorian frowned slightly, shifting in his seat.

Rainier glanced at him inquiringly. Dorian shrugged, crossing his arms. “I was only thinking that it hardly seems sporting, after everything we’ve seen.”

“Ah.” Rainier looked at the field. “There are others who end their matches as quickly.” He jerked his chin, and Dorian followed his line of sight to a tall, broad-shouldered woman with a massive axe who’d just finished her match, possibly by terrifying her opponent into submission. “Most of the best here are veterans. Experienced chevaliers, soldiers or mercenaries with a lot of experience behind them. The young pour in, eager to make their mark, but it’s not so often that someone rises on fresh talent and youthful energy.” His blue eyes had gone distant, looking into some memory only he could see.

Dorian shifted uncomfortably. He still was not entirely sure what to make of Blackwall. Rainier. Whatever he chose to call himself these days. He would answer to either name, and Dorian couldn’t tell whether he answered to his original name with relief or regret. But then, he’d always found the man hard to read. The mutual disdain they’d fallen into on first acquaintance clouded his vision, perhaps, or maybe it was the beard. They’d called a truce: that had been fair enough, apology tendered and accepted, but since then they hardly talked at all, as if they didn’t know what to say to each other without offering insults.

Rainier blinked, focusing back on the moment. He glanced at Dorian and then away. “At any rate. The Inquisitor’s certainly one of the best here. Still young, but highly experienced. _Unusually_ experienced, though. There won’t be any demons or red templars or dragons in the arena today.”

“That we know of,” Dorian pointed out.

Rainier glanced at him, startled, and laughed. “We hope not, anyway.”

“If any of the aforesaid _do_ appear, we can all wade in,” Dorian said cheerfully. “Here we are, the best of the Inquisition, always ready for trouble.”

“Wouldn’t that just be typical,” Varric said with a sigh.

Cole said sadly, “The Iron Bull would be terribly sad to miss a dragon.”

“The point being,” Rainier said, and then shook his head. “Ah, never mind.”

“No, please. Carry on.”

Rainier glanced at Dorian narrowly, looking for sarcasm. Dorian mustered sincerity. “I’m genuinely interested.”

Rainier grunted, apparently satisfied, and said, “The point being, there are other veterans here. These early rounds are one thing. Later today, and tomorrow, we’ll see some real swordsmanship. And you can’t ever discount luck.”

It was one of the longest statements Dorian had heard the man make at one time, and a highly sensible one. Dorian absorbed that. “So what you’re saying is _wait and see_ , is that it?”

“I guess I am.”

“You know _that_ _’s_ never satisfactory.”

Nonetheless, there wasn’t much else for it. There were, Dorian had to admit, worse ways to pass an afternoon. They ate cheese-stuffed pastries and drank ale or wine or cider. Rory pulled out their book and read, keeping no more than half an eye on the field. Sera got bored and started pulling off bits of dry bread and taking pot shots into the stands. Varric and Rainier had a running series of wagers as the match continued. When Dorian got bored by watching the jousting or yet another round of combat, he peered over Rory’s shoulder, surreptitiously taking in some melodramatic tale of a noble templar separated from his childhood sweetheart. Dorian did pay attention whenever Simon appeared on the field, naturally.

Though it might be amusing to pretend that the disguise had worked a little too well, and he hadn’t noticed Simon’s accomplishments at all. He was probably meant to notice.

Simon vanquished his third and fourth opponents as well, though the fourth forced him to work for it. It was, in fact, the statuesque woman Rainier had pointed out earlier, who moved first with a charge of her own and a sweep of that enormous axe, forcing Simon to fight defensively for the first time all day, as far as Dorian could tell.

“Change my bet,” Sera said. “A sovereign on her.”

“Don’t bet on people just because you want to undress them with your teeth, Buttercup,” Varric said.

Sera sniggered, her eyes going lost and dreamy. Josephine smiled in amusement, while Sebastian covered a laugh with a cough.

The woman with the axe roared and landed a blow on Simon’s shield hard enough to echo around the arena. Rory and Dorian both winced, but Simon held steady, and in fact followed up with a strike to the woman’s side that sent her stumbling backward. From there it was a series of quick blows that kept pushing her, catching her off guard, never giving her space to make another major attack. Tactics entirely learned from sparring with Bull, Dorian suspected, having watched more than a few of such sparring sessions with an appreciative eye. Especially in summer, there was such a lot of muscle on display. It was rather a pity Simon was so covered today.

“You owe me a sovereign, Buttercup,” Varric said when the woman finally yielded.

“Hey! You said it didn’t count!”

“I said you shouldn’t do it, not that it didn’t count.”

The two of them kept bickering while the two combatants shook hands, the woman with a wide smile visible on her face. Simon had to be sweltering inside that helmet, but he kept it on, even when the the tourney’s heralds called for a round of applause for the victors. The scene dissolved into a lot of milling about, various fighters seeking each other out to clap each other on the back, presumably exchanging compliments or some such.

“I thought you said there were prizes,” Rory said.

“Tomorrow, after the Grand Melee,” Sebastian said. “The heralds will mark points from today as well.”

“Is Inky gonna fight tomorrow, too?” Sera asked.

Josephine frowned at that. Dorian exchanged glances with Rory, whose brow was furrowed. “That doesn’t seem advisable,” Rory said finally.

“Agreed,” Dorian said. All eyes would be on the Grand Melee, and it was far more likely that complications or injury would ensue.

The audience had begun dispersing, streaming out of the stands like sand from a broken hourglass. The victorious combatants, too, were departing, making their way toward the gate in clumps. Dorian watched with half an eye; Simon seemed to have fallen in with the woman and another man, maybe another opponent from earlier in the day. Dorian wasn’t sure.

“They’ll be cleaning up and checking with the heralds before they leave,” Rainier said.

“He said he’d meet us, didn’t he?” Rory asked, looking about at the rapidly emptying stands.

“As best I remember,” Dorian said. “It was hours ago, and I was mostly asleep at the time.”

“So what, we’ve got to sit about here waiting?” Sera asked. She was on her feet already, scowling and bouncing in place; she’d been still much longer than her wont, to be fair. Cole had actually disappeared already.

“I suggest we return to the palace,” Sebastian said, rising. “He’ll know to find us there, and supper should be laid on shortly.”

“Sold,” Varric said.

They trooped off back toward the palace, while Dorian pondered whether it would be more pleasurable to see Simon next before or after a bath. The night’s supper was indeed ready when they arrived; whatever the failings of Starkhaven cuisine, the cooks were exemplary in their promptness and efficiency. Dorian rather expected Simon to appear before the meal was over, bath or not, but one by one the courses were cleared away, even dessert, without him making his triumphant, self-satisfied appearance.

“Where can Simon possibly have gotten to?” Rory finally asked aloud, giving voice to the unease that Dorian, at least, was experiencing as a certain queasiness.

“Out with some of the other combatants, perhaps?” Sebastian suggested, tentatively.

That notion was just plausible enough that Dorian hesitated, turning it over in his mind. He could see Rory doing the same, frowning in thought.

“I’ll go ask round,” Sera said, already halfway toward the door. “Someone must’ve seen something.”

“I’ll go, too,” Rainier said, following.

“Perhaps we should all look,” Josephine said.

“I’ll send some of the guards, and send a messenger to the Tourney heralds,” Sebastian said.

In all likelihood, they were going to find Simon buying rounds at some tavern, having made a score of new friends, Dorian thought. That was an annoying notion, but irritation was preferable to the fear starting to sink cold talons into his gut. He did his best to hold fast to the irritation, as search parties were organized and sent out — discreetly, so as not to cause alarm in a city packed with half-drunken visiting revelers.

After an hour of fruitless searching through one crowded, uproarious tavern after another, annoyance had entirely given way to fear, and Dorian was ready to throw discretion into the river and burn the entire city down, if necessary.

After two hours, the entire party was all forced to conclude that somehow, somewhere in the distance from the arena to the palace, the Inquisitor had gone missing.


	6. Chapter 6

Somewhere nearby, voices rose and fell, speaking a language that sounded almost familiar. But not quite.

Simon shook his head, trying to clear the fuzziness from his ears and hear better.

Instant regret. Pain surged through his head, a spike of hot lightning starting at the back of his skull. His stomach lurched.

He twitched, and something hard bit into his arms and chest and legs. Something that didn’t let him move more than an inch.

He sat for a moment without moving, breathing slowly and trying to swallow down the nausea. When he was reasonably sure he wasn’t about to empty his guts, he dared to open his eyes a crack.

There was some light in the room. Not much. Barely enough to see, when he looked down, that he sat in some kind of chair, a heavy, high-backed thing. Bound to it, with chains around his chest, arms, thighs, and ankles, the links tight enough to press into his skin.

Shit.

No room to move, no weapons, no armor — he was down to shirt and breeches, nothing more.

His shoulder still ached from that last match, and while his muscles were stiff and sore, the dull burn didn’t feel like it had been more than a few hours since the tourney.

That was plenty long enough, though.

One of the voices grew louder, sharper, and the words resolved themselves into something that sounded like Tevene.

That did Simon very little good. He knew a handful of words in Tevene, but couldn’t string them together into sentences. Besides, neither profanity nor endearments seemed especially useful at the moment.

Though profanity might be satisfying, at least.

While he was trying to decide whether to pretend he was still unconscious, footsteps approached, a soft rustle of leather shoes and robes against the floor. A solid, darker shape took form out of the shadows and stopped abruptly. Someone called, in the common tongue but heavily accented, “Master! He’s awake!”

If Simon hadn’t already guessed who his captors were, the appearance of the man who next approached would have told him. Coming forward until Simon could see him clearly, he looked almost a caricature of a Venatori mage, in a pointed hood and dark robes embroidered with gold sigils. On top of that, he had a lean, angular face, sharp chin accented by a pointed beard and thin mustache. He observed Simon with glittering black eyes. His lip curled. “Trevelyan,” he said, drawing out the vowels with disdain.

Simon straightened and sneered back.“That’s Inquisitor to you. Whoever you might be.”

“You don’t need to know my name.” The Venatori took a few steps closer, studying Simon. “All you need to know is that I serve the Elder One.”

“Still?” Simon asked. “Even after we hurled him into the sky?”

The Venatori’s nostrils flared. His... apprentices, acolytes, whatever they were, murmured among themselves from the shadowy corners of the room where they’d gathered. “Arrogant. Preen on your supposed victory as much as you like, but what has been banished may be recovered.”

Simon narrowed his eyes, keeping his smile fixed. His head pounded. Did they mean to summon Corypheus back somehow? Was he doomed to keep fighting the damned ancient magister over and over again for eternity? What a prospect. “How might you do that?”

The Venatori snorted. “As if I’d tell you. As if you’d understand if I did. Foolish, insignificant thief.”

Simon sighed dramatically. “You know, I’m getting tired of that particular insult out of you people. Nobody stole anything.”

“You took what rightfully belonged to the Master,” the Venatori snarled.

“Then maybe he shouldn’t have fucking dropped it,” Simon snapped back.

He expected retaliation, but his head still snapped to the side from the force of the mage’s backhanded blow. His vision hazed out for a moment while stars exploded in the back of his head and his ears rang. If the Venatori said anything more, he didn’t hear it, concentrating on breathing evenly and keeping his roiling stomach under control.

At length, he jerked himself back upright, chains clinking as they bit into his arms. The Venatori stood watching him, eyes cool. He reached out and swiped a finger roughly across Simon’s cheek, coming away dark with blood.

Simon blinked; he hadn’t even noticed the sting before. He felt it now, a shallow gash that pulled as he tightened his jaw. The ruby ring glinting on the Venatori’s hand must be the cause.

The Venatori rubbed the drop of blood between his fingers, sniffed it, and touched it to his tongue. Then he stepped back. “Let us begin.”

“Begin what?” Simon asked.

They didn’t reply. Two of the junior Venatori stepped out of the shadows. One approached him from the left side, where his arm had been bound in an odd position: twisted with his palm up, tied around the wrist as well as his upper arm. One apprentice tore his sleeve with a sharp tug, leaving the shredded fabric open and dangling.

The second apprentice drew a dagger across Simon’s palm before he could do more than inhale. Dark blood welled up from the slash.

“What in the Void do you think you’re doing?” Simon’s voice rose in spite of himself, betraying his fear; blood and magic and the Anchor, barely visible now but _felt_ , a dull weight in his palm. Under the cut.

“Continue,” said the Venatori, and his apprentice silently made the next cut, down the length of Simon’s forearm.

#

“We have to have _something_ to go on,” Rory said. Their voice rose in both pitch and intensity, and the candles on that end of the room flickered in unison as they spoke.

Once upon a time, Dorian had wondered what Rory Trevelyan looked like angry. It was an idle wonder, born in those early days in Haven when he was trying to take the measure of the Inquisition’s oddly assorted personnel. The Trevelyan twins, he suspected, confounded a good number of Inquisition insiders and observers alike. On the one hand, there was the one who smiled a lot and did most of the talking, and glided through the Inquisition’s activities on a wave of charm, muscle, and will; on the other, the shy one who hid behind their books, whose voice cracked when they spoke, and who peered at the world with wide, befuddled eyes.

It had been easy to underestimate Rory in those days. Once Dorian had joined in on the discussions of how to close the Breach, his initial impressions had been dashed. When Rory was on more familiar ground, the bashful, retiring facade gave way to bright-eyed confidence. Dorian had discovered that Rory possessed a keen intelligence as well as a comprehensive knowledge of magical theory. They were a credit to the southern Circles, in fact, though sometimes overly influenced by the limitations the southern Chantry imposed on mages’ learning.

Dorian had also learned, in time, that it was altogether too easy to assume that Simon was always the shield protecting his more sheltered twin from the world. There was no quicker way to draw Rory’s tight-lipped, blazing contempt than to hurt their brother. Dorian had discovered that the hard way himself, when a few poorly chosen words on his part had struck an unknown sore spot of Simon’s, and Rory had looked at Dorian as if seriously contemplating setting him on fire.

This time, of course, Dorian would be right next to Rory fanning the flames. Once they caught up with whoever had taken Simon, of course.

“There’s been no ransom note,” Josephine said. She carried her ever-present board for notes, but her hands shook ever so slightly.

Sebastian, grim-faced, said, “I talked to the heralds from the Tourney. They spoke with the Inquisitor once the match was over, as they did all the victors. The combatants dispersed to disarm and clean up. They didn’t see him leave the arena.”

“Nobody saw him leave,” said Rainier. “I talked to a few of the other warriors. A couple remembered him, thought he’d been lingering behind. They remembered because they asked him to join them and he declined.”

Rory nodded. “Then he didn’t join the others for drinks, after all.”

“Already knew that, after we looked in every pisshole tavern in this city,” Sera said with a scowl.

“But he’s not at the arena now,” Varric said. “We looked there, too.”

They had searched the entire arena, right down to the privies, fearing to find Simon unconscious or worse. Dorian’s gorge rose just remembering it. _Not now_ ; he was not losing Simon this way. The man had survived the conclave, an avalanche, demented ancient magisters, the Fade, and the worst Orlais could throw at him. Surely he would not fall to whatever garden-variety thugs Starkhaven could supply.

He would not lose his love on the verge of his return to Tevinter. He would _not_.

This time, the candles on Dorian’s end of the room flared. “Sorry,” he said, to the couple of questioning glances thrown his way. He’d deliberately placed himself distant from Rory. No one needed to see both of them twisting the Fade out of stress and worry.

Rory said, “So. Simon was last seen at the arena, just after the Tourney ended for the day, and isn’t there now. If he didn’t leave of his own will, how?”

“I talked to the stable kids,” Sera offered. “People had wagons drawn up round the arena. At the fighters’ entrance, for armor and stuff.”

“That would be one way to hide someone,” Rory said. “Did they see anyone acting odd?”

She shrugged, arms crossed and shoulders tight. “They’re kids, and they had work to do. They weren’t watching that close. One of ‘em said some of the wagon people talked funny. Never been out of Starkhaven before, he thought I talked funny, too.”

“They could have been from almost anywhere, then, but we could try to follow up on the wagon,” Varric said. “It might take a while, though.”

Probably too long, Dorian thought. The way Rory was clenching their teeth suggested they agreed.

“Cole,” Rory said. “Can you sense anything?”

They all turned expectantly toward Cole, who looked vaguely alarmed at all the attention. Dorian held his breath, hoping for something useful, but Cole shook his head vigorously, his hat brim flapping about his ears. “There’s too many. Happy, disappointed, eager, excited, nursing breaks and bruises. What will come tomorrow?” He blinked and shrank back a little into the shadows. “I’ve sought, but I can’t find.”

“You can’t sense anything through the Anchor?” Dorian asked Rory. “When Haven fell...” He trailed off. That awful night, they’d thought at first that both of the twins had been lost in the avalanche. Chance had led searchers to one, and the Anchor had pointed the way to the other like a magnet, even as the storm grew worse.

Rory frowned, absently massaging their marked hand. “The Anchor was more active then. It pulled. I can feel something now, but it’s... dull. Occluded. I’m sure he’s out there, but the sense is too diffuse. There’s no direction to it. He could be anywhere in the city. But... I’m sure he’s there,” they repeated, as if reassuring themself.

It was some small comfort, to be sure, but... Dorian narrowed his eyes. Rory habitually picked their words with care. If they’d chosen that word — “Occluded? As in hidden? Blocked? Perhaps _warded_?”

“Maybe.” Rory met Dorian’s gaze across the length of the room. “Do you suppose...?”

“Venatori,” Dorian spat. “Who else?” What little they knew added up, even the stable boys’ comments about foreigners. Few besides the Venatori had the ability to block Rory’s sense of where the Anchor led.

Around the room, everyone’s mood became palpably grimmer. If Dorian had it right, there would be no ransom, there would be no negotiation, and it became all the more pressing to find Simon as soon as possible, before —

Dorian didn’t let himself think about _before what_.

“Dorian. Hawke.” Rory glanced from one to the other of them. “Come see if you can help me... amplify this. The rest of you, get your gear and get ready to move. We’re going as soon as we have a direction to go in.”

Dorian more than half expected either Josephine or the prince to object to the prospect of their heavily armed party storming through the streets of Starkhaven, but Josephine merely started to draw a breath before nodding. Sebastian gave one short nod as well, and then said, “I’m going with you.”

Josephine shook her head, black curls bouncing. “Your Grace, you mustn’t —”

“It’s my city. And I feel responsible,” Sebastian said.

“Strange, you don’t look like a Venatori,” Dorian said.

“I feel responsible, nonetheless. And I think you’ll find I’m still a capable shot,” Sebastian said firmly. “I’m going.”

“Come on, you heard the Brains,” Varric said. “Whoever’s going, get your gear. Mages — do whatever it is you’re doing.”

As Dorian approached Rory, their magical auras set heat shimmering in the air. He’d been right to keep his distance before. Both of them were devoting significant effort to keep their magic under control. Hawke joined them, wary but curious, her presence a cooler balm next to theirs. She said, “I haven’t looked at the Anchor closely before. What am I looking for?”

“Simon and I each have half the Anchor,” Rory said, peering at their own palm and frowning in concentration. “Normally the two parts are linked together, though it’s easier to tell when they’re close. They influence each other. I can usually tell where he is, if I concentrate. Dorian’s right. I can’t now because there’s something in the way.”

Dorian bent his head, half closing his eyes to shut out distractions and feel out the Fade energies. Whatever wards guarded Simon’s location couldn’t actually be dispelled until they reached them, but all they needed for now was a direction. Perhaps if they could somehow strengthen the natural tie between the two halves of the Anchor. The thing had its own peculiar resonance, a sort of chorded hum —

— there. Eyes fully shut now, he felt it as fine tendrils, stretched out through the Veil. “There,” he said aloud to Hawke. “Do you see? Or rather, feel?”

“I hear it,” she said. “What shall we do?”

“Like tugging on a rope,” Dorian murmured.

“Strengthening it, more like,” Rory replied. A surge of power flowed from their direction, and the Anchor’s hum grew, the fine threads of its presence thickening.

Encouraged, Dorian followed Rory’s example, and Hawke did the same. All three of them pushed magic into the attenuated cord running between the two parts of the Anchor until it swelled, vibrated, the Anchor’s hum rising to a roar. Dorian opened his eyes to see a shock of green light bursting from Rory’s palm as the Anchor flared, bright as a beacon.

“I have it,” Rory said, wheeling slowly as if holding a compass. “That way.”

“Then let’s go after him,” Dorian said. _Before... before._

Rory nodded, jaw set tight, before glancing at Hawke. “Will you be joining us as well, Champion?”

She hesitated, her eyes going distant. After a moment, she said, “You might do better with Fenris this time. If that’s quite all right,” she added with a glance at Dorian.

Dorian laughed, more out of shock than humor. There was a grim appropriateness to it; the man had been made to take down rival mages, after all. “So long as the only Tevinter hearts he pulls out are theirs.”

Hawke grinned, fast and wolfish. “I think that will be entirely agreeable.” She held out a handful of lyrium vials. “Fenris and I have agreed one of us always stays behind, for the children’s sake, but take these, too. I’ll stay here and be ready when you return.”

#

“It doesn’t work that way, you know,” Simon said, watching the blood run down his arm with a certain sickly fascination.

They didn’t seem inclined to bleed him dry. Not quickly, anyway. They’d let some of the cuts scab over. They even spared a touch of healing magic from time to time, when the blood came too fast. Even so, he’d bled enough to make him a little fuzzy in the head. He couldn’t make out what they were doing with the blood — collecting it some sort of basin, it seemed like, but beyond that, he wasn’t sure.

Only one of the younger Venatori was with him now. He’d probably been told not to speak to Simon, because he twitched and pursed his lips. He glanced sidelong at Simon — all the while etching a careful, shallow line into the flesh of his arm — before saying, “What doesn’t?”

He had a much rougher accent than Dorian’s. Simon found that surprising, though he couldn’t quite think why. “The Anchor,” he said. “I’ve only got half of it. You must want the whole thing for... whatever you’re planning.”

The Venatori scowled. Pouted, almost. Simon nearly laughed at the look on his face. “What would you know about it, soporati scum?”

Simon did laugh, then. “Quite a lot, I should think. Considering I’ve been carrying it around for the better part of two years.”

The Venatori stuck his lip out and dug the tip of the blade in a little harder. “The Master knows best.”

“Oh, well, if you say so,” Simon said. Sarcasm was distraction, of a sort, from the sting of the knife, and the way his muscles cramped beneath their bonds. Poor enough distraction, but something, at least.

“You know nothing about it!” the Venatori said, waving the knife for emphasis. The point shone crimson. “You are only a braggart, a thief, false prophet! Soporati are not fit to be in charge of anything.”

Simon laughed, helplessly. None of this ought to be funny, but he couldn’t help himself, the way the Venatori sneered and insulted when they couldn’t possibly have any idea what they were doing. 

The Venatori gaped at him for a moment. Then his nostrils flared. “When the Elder One returns —”

“ _If_ the Elder One returns,” Simon interrupted, “which he’s not going to, because whatever you’re doing isn’t going to work —” He sincerely hoped he was right about that one, because he truly didn’t fancy having Corypheus erupt out of the Fade at him while he was stuck in this chair. “— then I’ll beat his bony ass all over again, if I have to.”

The Venatori’s eyes went wide in sheer rage. He stood quivering a moment, before raising his hand, ice swirling around his fingers.

Cold shot through Simon’s body, enveloped him, ice flaring in flakes and diamonds over his skin. The chains froze and tightened, biting harder into his arms and legs. When he gasped, ice seared his throat and lungs, leaving him locked in place, stiff and frozen. Silenced, he could only watch while the mage stabbed his knife through the scrim of ice and the thin skin inside Simon’s elbow, releasing a fresh, sluggish trickle of blood.

#

Dorian supposed it was just as well Sebastian had insisted on coming with them, even if he did wear appallingly white armor under his dark cloak. The city guards knew him on sight, which turned out to be handy as the Inquisition party made its way through streets packed with tipsy revelers.

They were an oddly-assorted and heavily-armed group, after all. One burly, bearded warrior, two mages in full battle kit (that alone being enough to alarm the average city guardsman), one elf with an enormous sword and spiked armor, another with a strung bow, a lad with daggers in his hands and an outrageous hat, and a dwarf brandishing an over-engineered crossbow — yes, one could easily understand the impulse to stop the likes of them, unfortunate as that would be for the well-being of those attempting the act.

But fortunately, the guards recognized their prince, and accepted his signal, relaxing and letting go their weapons, though they watched the group pass warily.

Sebastian also knew the city far better than the rest of them. They had no destination in mind, and could only follow the Anchor’s link, like a child’s game: first one way, then another, making their way through Starkhaven’s busy streets. The city’s main thoroughfares were full of Tourney-going revelers, but Sebastian was able to guide them into less-populated side streets or alleyways, where they could move more quickly. With a passing degree of stealth, even, though speed mattered more.

Even so, every moment fled by far too quickly, and Dorian’s jaw ached from clenching his teeth against the urge to twist time around them.

They came to another halt as Rory stopped and frowned, their face illumined oddly in the Anchor’s green glow. “We’re getting close. I’m sure of it. But...” They looked up, dubiously, at the city wall looming ahead of them.

“This heading?” Sebastian asked. When Rory nodded, he turned to the left and strode off. “The closest gate is this way.”

Sera groaned as they set off. Dorian cursed under his breath. Another delay. Every moment lost was another for the Venatori to do more of whatever foolish, dreadful thing they were planning. Dorian did not need to know the specifics to have his own darkest guesses. Blood, no doubt, and meddling with the Anchor, and possibly meddling with Simon’s head.

He would not _let_ himself dwell on any of the worst possibilities, because that way lay either despair or him immolating the nearest building. He hurried on after the others, fingertips smoldering.

_Hold on, amatus. We_ _’re coming. Just... hold on._

#

Simon came to with a gasp, jerking himself out of a slump only to meet unyielding chains, digging into skin already chafed and bruised. He hardly knew where he was for a moment, wondering stupidly at the chains, and the cold water dripping from his hair and soaking his shirt.

Right. Venatori. Ice spells. Even less pleasant this way than in magic-resistant armor. His face felt alternately numb and burning.

The Venatori were chanting. Four or five of them, maybe six, voices mingling into a rolling, ominous wave of sound. Simon couldn’t see them at first, dark-robed men in a room gone dark.

Then they summoned fire, fist-sized gouts of flame rising to chest level as they raised their arms in unison.

The Anchor lit, too, a burst of green light sudden enough to startle Simon as it pulsed, sending fresh pain shooting up his arm to the shoulder. He knew that pain well, though, ever since he’d woken in Cassandra’s prison cell. He almost welcomed it after the Venatori’s picking away at him for the last few hours.

(Surely only hours. Not days. It couldn’t be days. He hoped.)

The Anchor throbbed, darkness streaming toward it, in thin twisting ribbons and rivulets that dissolved into the crackling green light.

No. Not darkness. Blood, carmine-dark, pulled into the shimmering light that rose from his hand.

The chanting rose higher and louder. The Venatori raised their arms. The reedier voices among them grew sharp, almost frantic, and the Anchor’s light swelled, grew, bright enough to cast harsh shadows over the nearest faces, sharp-boned and eager.

Simon hardly breathed. The very air seemed to skew and twist, as if it were about to tear.

The Venatori reached their most triumphant note, and held it.

Everything stopped, teetering on the brink of... something.

And then the Anchor dimmed. The light dwindled and faded, back into a dull glow and a matching ache.

The Venatori stopped singing. As the Anchor’s green light left their faces, Simon saw disappointment, confusion, even a certain sullenness.

“It should have worked,” one of them said. “Master, you said —”

“Silence,” snapped their leader, from behind Simon.

Simon snickered. He bit his lip, trying to keep quiet, but the laughter burst out anyway. Out of relief, more than anything. He’d been right about one thing, at least. Whatever they were trying, they couldn’t do it. They might kill him trying, he supposed, but if that was the price to be paid, so be it.

The senior Venatori stalked around the chair, appearing before Simon with glittering eyes. “Stop that,” he said, and snapped blood-coated fingers.

Simon’s throat seized up as if he’d swallowed a stone, or as if bile had risen and grown solid. The laughter died, cut off by the spell. Unable to speak, he glared at the mage.

“Better,” said the Venatori. “Be silent. And let us begin again.”


	7. Chapter 7

The guards at the gate let them pass, Sebastian’s presence as good as a key. Wagon? Yes, they’d seen several wagons pass by in the afternoon. Most of the wagons had departed on the main road; one of the guards thought one wagon had turned off on a smaller track, half a mile ahead.

Varric sighed noisily as they passed down the road. “Figures we’d have to leave the city. Probably end up in another damned cave.”

Dorian snorted. Before he could say a word, Fenris beat him to it. “Yes, Varric. We all know your feelings on the out-of-doors.”

Varric grumbled. Dorian eyed the elf, startled. He’d been so nearly about to say the same thing himself.

Fenris caught his eye and, for once, did not scowl at him gimlet-eyed; there might even be the shadow of a smirk there. Extraordinary.

There was little time to contemplate this unusual lack of disapproval, however, as Rory seemed intent on moving as quickly as possible now that they were free of city streets and crowds. They strode at the head of the party, the Anchor a beacon of sorts now that full night had fallen. Under his breath, Dorian conjured light around their boots, so at least no one would break an ankle in the dark. They should have ridden, he thought, but there would have been no room to maneuver mounts in the crowded city, and sending for them from the gate would only have delayed them further.

He could only hope they didn’t have much farther to go.

They turned off the main road at the track the guards had alluded to. It narrowed rapidly, rising into the rocky, forested hills around Starkhaven. Darkness closed around them, full of the twittering of night creatures. Dorian glanced uneasily to the side, hoping the Venatori had not posted watchers in the woods. Even as he had the thought, Cole vanished into the trees. Dorian exhaled, trying to settle his nerves. If there _was_ anyone posted out here, Cole would surely find them.

If it turned out to be a cave after all, Varric would never let them hear the end of it.

The road, however, ended at a ramshackle house. Nestled against the rock wall, to be sure, but not actually carved of stone. As best Dorian could make out in the darkness, the roof was patched and sagging. Light glimmered through one or two of the windows. It looked like a large place, rambling back from the road. This was an estate, not a humble farmer’s house; somewhere that might have been prosperous once, now fallen on worse days.

A wagon stood conspicuously outside the entrance.

The entire place hummed with magic, enough to set Dorian’s teeth on edge. He shook his head impatiently, brushing away the sense of illusory cobwebs and thorny vines. Warded, most definitely, the space defined and guarded by glyph and spell.

Rory stopped short, a few paces from the edge of the wards. The others followed their lead, fanning out in a loose semicircle behind them. Only Dorian made his way to Rory’s side, feeling out the shape and taste and construction of this particular set of wards. The general principle of the spells was familiar, right out of standard Tevinter training: primary wards to define the space, block intrusion, and paralyze those that stepped across the line; secondary wards, to alert those within. They were well enough made, Dorian gave the Venatori a grudging point for that, but uncreative.

Rory, eyes narrowed, seemed to have reached the same conclusion. “If you can take down the primary wards,” they said quietly, “I think I can catch the secondaries before anyone gets the alarm.”

“Can I take down the primary wards,” Dorian scoffed. “Of course I can, have you met me?” He eyed the house. He itched to set fire to that tattered wooden roof. Afterward, perhaps. Not until they’d found Simon. “Ready?” he asked Rory.

Rory adjusted their spectacles, frowning in concentration, and nodded.

Dorian reached out to the bristling mass of ward lines, seized it, and wrenched it apart.

The plan worked beautifully. As Dorian tore an opening in the warding spells, Rory slipped through the Fade. They landed inside the perimeter and intercepted the message-spells of the secondary wards before they could reach any of the Venatori inside. The wards died silently, withering away into nothing, leaving their passage to the estate unimpeded. Dorian grinned in satisfaction.

The Anchor lit like a torch, its glow bright enough to make them all squint and avert their eyes. Rory made a fist, futilely attempting to hide the light, and sucked in a breath.

“Well, that can’t be good,” Varric said softly.

“They’re taking from him and feeding it,” came Cole’s voice out of the darkness. “Trying to bring back what was banished. We have to stop them.”

“That’s the idea,” Rainier said.

Rory nodded, steadying. “Let’s go.”

#

The Venatori were chanting again.

Simon had lost track of... a lot of things. He wasn’t sure how long it had been since the first time. There’d been more knives, more blood, more... he couldn’t remember. They’d slapped him a couple more times, either to keep him awake or because he’d been mouthing off again.

Pathetic, really. Should have mustered a better effort than that. Chains and all.

His vision went fuzzy around the edges, dark spots drifting across it. It was dark anyway. He guessed Venatori rituals needed a lot of dark.

Same chant as before, best he could tell. He blinked at them, idly, wondering if they’d done anything different this time.

The Anchor flared, bright enough and sudden enough that most of the Venatori winced. The closest ones flinched away, ducking into their hoods to avoid it.

Brilliant, still growing brighter, and something _pulled_ on it, a presence. Simon tried to maneuver himself upright. A familiar presence, close and getting closer. Relief nearly made him white out.

Except — 

The Anchor’s light shimmered and twisted, the Veil tearing around it.

“It’s working!” cried one of the Venatori. “At last! The Elder One returns to us!”

Simon shook his head — he didn’t think so, he thought it was just that Rory was finally here, but —

Then the door burst open.

#

The room reeked of blood and magic. Of blood magic, specifically. It was a fairly distinctive metallic tang, and in this room it was strong enough that Dorian could taste it. His stomach churned.

The room glowed green — from the Anchor, he thought at first, until the he spotted the twisting rift in the Fade, which widened even as the door crashed back against the wall. The torches around the walls sputtered, pale in comparison. The whole room glimmered with swirling green energies, as the rift vomited out the stick-like forms of terror demons, which screeched and brandished their claws.

The Venatori, walking caricatures in their dark hooded robes, didn’t seem to have been expecting that. Several of them screamed.

Well: rift, demons, Venatori — and Simon, bound to a chair in the middle of the room. Dorian only had a bare moment to register that he was there, slumped but presumably alive, and that he looked a right mess.

It was no mystery where the blood had come from.

He bared his teeth and spun his staff, fury already pulling on the Fade, and called, “Left!”

“Right,” Rory answered.

They cast at once, twin walls of fire streaking across the room, igniting Venatori and demons alike.

“Cole,” Rory said, while the rest of them barreled into the room and Dorian threw a barrier onto as many of them as possible, “get those chains off him.”

Cole darted past them in a flash of shadow, headed for the chair. Fenris was across the room just as fast, bringing that ridiculously large sword down in an arc that nearly cleaved one enemy mage in half. Arrows and bolts whistled through the room as the archers spread out from the doorway. The Venatori were shouting, falling into confusion. Only a few seemed to retain the presence of mind to cast their own defenses and draw their knives. Terror demons shrieked, too, and a few rage demons oozed their way out of the rift with that eye-bending, bobbing motion. Following them, something dark and bulky loomed on the other side of the rift.

“The Elder One!” wailed one of the Venatori, falling to his knees.

Dorian missed a beat at that. The shape looming hazily through the rift seemed all wrong, but if drawing Corypheus back out of the Fade had been their plot all along, could they possibly have done it?

But the thing that stepped out of the rift and roared at them was only a pride demon.

_Only_.

“Getting crowded in here!” Dorian called.

From somewhere behind him, Sera shouted, “Then maybe bloody kill a few!” As punctuation, an arrow sank into the throat of the kneeling Venatori, who toppled over, gurgling.

“Picky, picky,” he said, setting a few Venatori and terror demons on fire with a twirl of his staff.

#

The room erupting into fire was almost comforting.

Most people would have said Simon was daft to think so.

But fire meant Dorian, or Rory, or both, and that even made all the screaming a relief.

The demons hurtling out of the rift, much less of a relief.

Simon’s vision blurred. Between the fires and the green glow of the rift, he couldn’t bring anything into focus. He shook his head, trying to clear it. He could make out spindly demons, hooded Venatori, and — he thought — some blessedly familiar shapes on the other side of the room. Familiar voices, even, if his ears weren’t playing tricks.

If this was all a hallucination, or some kind of Venatori trick —

A thin figure in a wide-brimmed hat appeared at Simon’s side and peered at the chains. “These are too tight.”

“Cole,” Simon gasped. For a moment, all he could feel was relief. “Thank the Maker.”

“But Rory sent me,” Cole said.

“Thank the Maker for Rory, then.” A pride demon emerged from the rift; he could make out _that_ shape even with spots dancing before his eyes. Simon cringed back in the chair, flinching at the charged air that surrounded the demon.

The first set of chains fell with a clatter. “Faster,” Simon suggested, squinting at the chaotic scramble of demons and Venatori in front of him. Only a matter of time before one of them took an interest in him, or a wayward blast of something caught him, shaky and unprotected.

“It’s hard when everything’s solid,” Cole said softly. “It doesn’t listen.”

Simon flinched again as the pride demon’s lightning lash cracked through the air — above his head, fortunately. A heartbeat later, the familiar warmth of freshly cast barriers washed over him. Warm and comforting, like an evening by the hearth. Someone looking out for him.

#

The lesser demons had thinned out a little, fallen to fire, arrow, and bolt. Some of the Venatori had fallen as well, largely due to having their hearts ripped out of their chests. Dorian could spare them a shudder, if nothing in the way of sympathy. They might be his countrymen, but they were still arrogant idiots, and what they’d tried to do to Simon —

Every fiber of Dorian’s being called him to run to that chair and see and feel for himself that Simon was still alive, still himself.

But duty called louder, and a crowd of enemies stood in the way.

Rainier and Rory had moved in to engage the pride demon. Usually, Simon would be the one charging the thing, ramming it with his shield to draw its attention while the rest of them whittled it down, but tonight Rainier held his own against the demon’s armored bulk. Rory nipped around to its side, conjuring their blade out of the Fade to slice into the demon’s scaly side. It roared, wheeling, and Dorian drew ice out of the Fade around it, distracting the thing momentarily. Slowing it down, as well. He followed up by throwing another barrier into the center of the room, catching Rainier and Cole and, most importantly, Simon, still confined and vulnerable. Dorian spared a split-second glance at his other allies: Fenris was still cutting his way through mages and demons alike, and Varric and Sebastian had pulled together. For the moment nothing was closing with them.

Sera’s shout snapped Dorian’s attention to the other side of the room, and he cursed himself for not noticing the Venatori who’d regained some wits and slipped out of the fray, chanting and drawing patterns in the air with his dagger. As he finished, fire erupted under Dorian’s feet, forcing him to fling himself backward, singed and stinging. He hurled a blast of lightning back, the Venatori screaming, back arched and hair standing on end. The lightning flashed to the nearest demon, scorching it into nothing with a stench of sulfur, and hit two more before fizzling out.

“Try barrier on us next time,” Sera called from behind him.

“Dodge faster,” Dorian suggested.

“I dodged plenty fast, you’re the slow one.”

Dorian snarled, still feeling the burn, and conjured another barrier around them.

#

Cole might complain about being solid, but he was fast and deft all the same. Simon pushed the last of the chains aside, hands shaking, and took his first deep breath in — how long? He didn’t know. Hours, at least. He started to stand, eager to get out of the middle of this mess.

His knees buckled. His vision went grey. Every abused muscle in his body seized up. He fell back into the chair with a thud.

Cole said something, but Simon couldn’t make it out through the ringing in his ears. The room swirled, blurred, too bright and too loud and he couldn’t do a damned thing for himself, much less any of them.

Cole pressed a vial to his lips. Simon swallowed on reflex.

His head cleared almost before he recognized the cool, green tang of elfroot hitting his tongue. Everything still hurt — his head and his arm, especially — but the potion seemed to have brought strength and vitality with it. And clarity, most importantly.

Cole spun away from Simon and buried his daggers in the back of a retreating Venatori, who fell with a muffled, stricken noise.

He was the last of the hooded forms. A few rage demons remained, one backing Varric into a corner before Cole leaped on it.

And the pride demon, bellowing as it whirled between Rory and Rainier, harried by steel and Fade-born blades. Nearly done, Simon hoped, because behind it, in the rift, more shadowy figures milled.

“Rory,” he called, “we need to close this.”

“I know!” Rory called back, striking at the demon’s back.

Not Corypheus, Simon hoped. They couldn’t have really done it, couldn’t have found their benighted master in the Fade and yanked him out again. He closed his hands into fists, in spite of the splitting sting in his left palm.

Rory darted through the Fade as the demon spun toward them, faster than anything that big and heavy-looking had a right to move. A bolt and two arrows whizzed into its back, and then the whole creature was engulfed in flame. It roared one last time as it died, flailing its armored arms.

Something else loomed in the rift, something tall and angular. Simon couldn’t make the details of the face, but he knew he didn’t want to risk that the Venatori might have succeeded. He struggled to his feet, head spinning at the movement, raising his arm and willing it shut with every shred of will, trusting.

Trusting rightly: Rory whirled where they stood and joined in. Simon could feel the surge of the Anchor’s power, pulling out of his very bones and through his arm. In this moment, he felt the power tug from Rory’s direction, too, as if Rory were standing right next to him. All three of them connected — him and Rory and the rift — power coursing through the invisible bonds. Green light spilled out of both halves of the Anchor, filling the rift, driving back the dark form coalescing on the other side. He gritted his teeth, trying to keep steady as the Anchor’s power forced the opening smaller and smaller and smaller until it winked out entirely.

In the silence, Simon swayed and sagged to his knees, utterly spent.

A warm, familiar hand fell on his shoulder, and Rory’s voice sounded worried in his ear, calling his name, and then another touch on his other side. With an effort, Simon lifted his head and found Rory and Dorian on either side of him, both watching him with alarm. “My favorite people,” he said, and tried for a reassuring smile. “I’m all right.”

Rory looked skeptical and Dorian winced. “Try again,” Dorian suggested. “You look dreadful.”

Simon laughed. He swiped ineffectively at the dampness on his cheek and winced as he accidentally pressed on a bruise. “Thank you,” he said.

Somewhere else in the room, Sera snickered.

“Are you hurt anywhere else?” Rory asked. “Besides, er...”

“All the places you’re obviously bleeding,” Dorian finished.

“Still?” Simon looked down. Sure enough, some of the cuts on his arm were still oozing blood sluggishly. All the bands where he’d been chained showed rusty-brown through his clothes, where the chain links had chafed his skin. He stared in idle fascination at his arm, ribboned with cuts. Rory had to squeeze his shoulder before he remembered to answer the question. “Um. Head. How they got me in the first place.”

“Ah,” Dorian said, running his fingers lightly over the back of Simon’s head. He winced, even though the touch was gentle. The whole back of his skull felt like one enormous tender lump.

“We wondered about that,” came Varric’s voice, from somewhere behind Rory.

“Ambushed me at the arena,” Simon said. The memory felt distant now, but the embarrassment stung nonetheless.  “One distracted me, someone else clouted me from behind. Stupid. Should have been more careful.”

“Never mind about that now,” Rory said. “Can you stand?”

“Of course,” Simon said, with more confidence than he felt, and made to stand.

Neither Dorian nor Rory seemed to believe him. At least, both of them slid an arm around him to lend support, and he ended up on his feet, with one arm draped across each of them. “I can walk,” he said, to no one in particular.

Someone snorted. “Sure you can,” Varric said. “Let’s get out of here.”

#

They made their way through the house slowly, picking their way over debris and fallen enemies. Some of the hallways were only barely wide enough for the three of them. Not that Dorian minded having to pull Simon closer, where he could feel the reassuring rhythm of his breath and heartbeat along with his solid weight.

He _did_ mind the blood still seeping from half a dozen injuries, and the bruises on Simon’s face, and the nasty lump under blood-matted hair on the back of his head. Once Dorian got back to the Imperium, he was going to hunt down the remaining Venatori and make sure they regretted every moment of this plot, along with all the rest of their idiotic, selfish, destructive schemes.

Though that meant he’d have to leave, and the thought of that made him tighten his grip. “We can’t leave you unattended even for a minute, can we?” he said.

Simon had the nerve to laugh, breathlessly. “Thought it would be a good show.”

“What, at the Tourney? You made a decent enough showing,” Dorian said.

“Only decent? How disappointing.”

“I thought you were good,” Rory said. “I wish you’d told me, though.”

“Sorry. Thought everyone would warn me off.”

Dorian rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. They emerged from the house into the dark of night, lit only by the torch Sebastian carried. He and Fenris were talking quietly. Rainier had hitched a team of placid-looking horses to the Venatori’s wagon. “Thought we may as well commandeer it,” he explained.

“How they got me here, I s’pose,” Simon said. He looked around vaguely, squinting into the darkness. “Where is here, anyway?”

“Not far outside Starkhaven,” Sebastian replied. “I’ll send a troop of guards to clean up the place.”

“We’ll need to send Inquisition personnel with them, to examine their magical preparations and equipment,” said Rory.

Dorian glanced over his shoulder. Cole, Varric, and Sera were emerging from the house, pockets clearly bulging with the most interesting pieces the Venatori had been carrying. The house had appeared largely empty when their party stormed in, but the Venatori might have left behind books or artifacts or something else useful somewhere.

“I’m sorry for all that’s happened,” Sebastian said, regarding Simon with concern. “Perhaps we shouldn’t have...”

Simon shook his head and winced at the movement. “Not your fault. They would have found some other way to get me alone. Or Rory.”

“Still —”

“Let’s get back to the palace,” Rory said firmly, cutting off any further efforts at apologies. Dorian approved. Simon was in no condition for any kind of serious conversation at this point.

Dorian eyed the back of the wagon, which was high, and empty of anything but crates. “A moment,” he said, and climbed up himself, turning to steady Simon as Rory and Rainier boosted him up. Simon swayed on his feet, even with Dorian to lean on. Dorian eased them both down to the wagon’s rustically wooden floor, sitting cross-legged with his own back propped against one of the larger crates, and encouraged Simon to rest his head on Dorian’s lap.

“Nicer than the chair,” Simon said, with a lazy smile.

“That is the weakest praise I’ve heard in my life,” Dorian replied, lightly running his fingers through Simon’s hair, seeking out any further, hidden damage.

“Mm. I’ll do better later.” No other obvious welts or gashes, at least. The action soothed his own nerves.

“See that you do.”

Simon’s eyelids drooped.

“Don’t sleep just yet, amatus,” Dorian said softly, as much as he hated to deny the rest that Simon obviously needed. It wouldn’t be a long delay, at least.

“Head wound, I know.” Simon’s eyes opened, with visible effort.

Rory clambered into the wagon after them, having finished whatever conversation had been going on outside.

“Head wound,” Dorian agreed, “and I want to make sure my perfidious countrymen didn’t leave any little traps in your head.” He reached out with his other sense, looking for any spell-bonds or misbegotten ties to the Fade: anything that might turn a sleeping mind into a den of nightmares, or worse, take control of a person altogether.

“Just seemed interested in blood. And the Anchor,” Simon said, eyes half-closing again.

Dorian gritted his teeth against the anger churning in his stomach, but kept his hands gentle, combing through tangled and matted hair. He couldn’t detect any signs of magical tampering, at least. Only interested in the blood, indeed.

“Rory?” Simon said, as the wagon started to move.

“Right here,” Rory said, reaching for Simon’s hand.

“Glad they didn’t grab you,” Simon mumbled, his eyes drifting closed again.

Rory sighed and threw Dorian a long-suffering glance. Exasperating man, always insisting on throwing himself between them and harm.

Though if he was any other way, he wouldn’t be himself.

Dorian sighed more quietly, and settled back, letting Simon drift into sleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Simon woke in a comfortable place, with pain a fading memory.

He lay with his eyes closed and tested that notion, cautiously stretching and turning his arms and legs. The Anchor throbbed once, dully, and his whole left arm felt like it had been peeled, but on the whole nothing hurt too badly. Cautiously, he opened his eyes, and found Hawke in a chair beside the bed, reading by magelight.

“Hawke,” he said, mildly surprised.

“There you are,” she said cheerfully, shutting her book. “How are you feeling?”

“Where —” He lifted his head and spotted Rory and Dorian, each slumping in a chair, sound asleep. “Ah.” He let his head fall back.

“How are you feeling?” Hawke asked again, keeping her voice low.

“Fine,” he said, stretching.

“Mm, good, though they did tell me you’d say that.” Hawke leaned over and put a hand on Simon’s arm, her expression going distant and thoughtful.

“Not that I’m not touched at your concern, but —”

She withdrew her hand, smiling. “You haven’t forgotten I have a knack for healing, have you? Someone had to stick your skin back together.” She wiggled her fingers at him.

Simon wanted to smack himself for forgetting. Possibly he wasn’t quite all there yet. “Thank you.”

“My pleasure.” She patted his arm. “I’m glad you’re all right.”

“Thanks for the loan of your husband, as well.”

She laughed a little, quietly. “Well, with Tevinters involved I would have had to hold him back. You might as well consider that you’d done him a favor.”

Simon snorted. “I hope he’ll available the next time we uncover a Venatori plot.”

“Try not to uncover the plot by getting abducted, next time,” Hawke suggested.

“Excellent suggestion. I’ll consider it.” Simon glanced at Dorian, who’d fallen asleep with his neck at an odd angle and his mouth half open. He’d complain about both of those things in the morning. Only two more mornings before he’d be gone, returning to the Imperium, to throw himself into the politics he’d always told Simon were a mass of plots and poison. He’d go quite possibly to his death, without Simon there to guard or help him at all.

And Simon couldn’t stand in his way, not without risking Dorian becoming a shadow of himself, the shallow, decorative companion he occasionally pretended to be. Dorian had to go home, and at least try to change it, and Simon had to stay with the Inquisition.

“You’ll probably find that you’re tired for a few days,” Hawke said. “It takes a while for blood to rebuild itself, even with magical help.”

“Thank you again, all the same.” Simon glanced toward her as she rose from the chair, sighing and stretching her back. “Are you going?”

Hawke nodded, covering a yawn. “It’s my official opinion that you don’t need constant supervision, and I’d just as soon sleep in my own bed for what’s left of the night.”

“What time is it?” Simon asked.

“An hour or two past midnight, I’d guess,” she said. “Enough time for a few more hours of sleep.”

“Good night, then.”

She bade him good night as well, and left, taking the light with her. Simon waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness, and then sat up. His head swam, lending proof to Hawke’s words. He didn’t have to get up, though, only to reach out and catch Dorian’s sleeve. “Dorian.”

Dorian startled awake with a grunt, jerking half upright in the chair and then wincing as his neck creaked. “What — you’re awake!”

“Yes. Come to bed. Quietly. Rory’s asleep.”

Dorian blinked, befuddled, and looked at the other chair. Rory had found a more comfortable-looking position to curl up in, at least. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. Hawke said so, too. Come on.” He tugged at Dorian’s sleeve.

Dorian did not require much encouragement to haul himself out of the chair, yawning, and tumbled into bed face-first when Simon moved over to make room. “Why’d you wake me?” Dorian asked, muffled by the pillow.

“Because you were going to get a stiff neck like that.” Simon tucked an arm around Dorian, clothes and all. Which was what he’d really wanted: the warmth and familiar shape of Dorian in the bed, since they hadn’t much time left. Not that he wanted to remind Dorian of that now.

“Mm, and that’s the only reason,” Dorian murmured. Knowing him too well, no doubt.

Simon kissed him on the cheek. “Go back to sleep.”

Dorian sighed and did at once. He’d probably only been half awake to being with. Simon lay for a moment, listening to the quiet rhythm of his breathing, and Rory’s, a little more distant.

His two favorite people in the world, he thought, right before he fell asleep.

#

“I swear to you, I feel perfectly all right,” Simon said in the morning.

That was an exaggeration, but only a slight one. His head still ached, and he felt a trifle light-headed, but neither was truly worthy of complaint.

Rory, however, looked at him skeptically, one of those looks where they tilted their spectacles down and peered through the lenses like a schoolmaster, making Simon feel vaguely like a guilty small boy. Younger siblings ought not be able to have that effect. “Simon. You were being sacrificed in a blood magic ritual less than a day ago.”

“And I’m healed now, truly,” Simon protested. Rory had been out of the room when he’d awakened. They’d probably fled at the sight of Simon and Dorian curled up together, but Simon could only muster the slightest bit of guilt about that. He’d been far too comfortable, and they hadn’t been up to anything more shocking than sleeping. Simon had gotten out of bed under his own power and puttered around cleaning up and shaving. All right, he’d been going a bit slowly and taking breaks between tasks, but that didn’t mean Rory and Dorian both needed to be staring at him like he was an invalid.

“Try again,” Dorian suggested, from behind Simon. Simon glanced over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of Dorian, still sleep-ruffled, but regarding him with the same sort of suspicious eye Rory had brought to bear.

“Don’t you trust me?” Simon asked.

“With many things, yes,” Rory said.

“Not to be honest about how you’re feeling, however,” Dorian said.

Simon looked from one to the other, betrayed. “Are the two of you ganging up on me?”

“Yes,” Rory said calmly.

“You have to watch out for mages,” Dorian said, circling around Simon’s chair and putting on his best evil-magister smirk.

“Bollocks,” Simon said, making a rude gesture at both of them. “I’m fine. Look.” He held out his hand, to show off its steadiness.

Unfortunately, the lattice of thin white scars the Venatori had cut into his arm showed with shocking clarity in the morning light. They’d fade in time, but even magical healing didn’t erase them completely. Simon watched as both his twin’s and his lover’s expressions tightened. He lowered his arm and tried another tack. “It’ll look strange if I’m absent for two days in a row. I’ll go, I’ll sit quietly in the stands and wave at the combatants. Nothing strenuous, I promise.”

Rory’s face cleared. “I was worried you wanted to compete again.”

“No, of course not,” Simon said. “I’m not an idiot.”

“Well, on occasion...” Dorian said thoughtfully. Simon glared at him.

He felt wistful about the idea, in truth — another missed opportunity. It would have been something to fight in the melee on the final day, but he knew his own capabilities, and could tell when he wasn’t in fighting shape.

Ah, it would have looked bad for him to take the prize, anyway.

Rory rose from their chair and said, “That’s all right, then. I’ll let you dress, and we can go over together.”

“Anything else you’d like to say about my wits?” Simon asked once Rory had gone.

“Hm? Oh, no.” Dorian stood before the mirror, arranging his hair.

“It seemed as though you had an opinion. If you’ve got something to say —”

Dorian froze, hair half-combed, before turning on his heel and stalking toward Simon. “Only this. You nearly died — again —” His voice shook slightly “— and that gives me some serious qualms about letting you out of my sight.” He came to a stop in front of Simon’s chair, close enough that Simon had to crane his neck back to meet Dorian’s eyes.

A mean, selfish part of him wanted to say: _then stay_. What he said instead was: “I’m all right.”

“You always say that,” Dorian said.

“It’s true, though. I haven’t died yet.”

“Not for lack of trying.” Dorian leaned over, bracing one hand on either arm of the chair — Simon’s own usual game, since Dorian liked to take over the most comfortable armchair in any room he occupied — and kissed him, a kiss somehow both slow and urgent. Simon framed Dorian’s face with both hands, putting all the things he wasn’t saying into it — _stay_ and _don_ _’t let me drag you down_ and _I_ _’ll miss you_ all in one.

“I am going to hunt down every blighted one of them,” Dorian murmured, breaking away only far enough to speak.

That was hardly reassuring. Simon’s imagination leaped all too quickly to Dorian chained, bound, and bleeding. “Carefully, I hope,” he said, and returned his own favorite endearment. “Amatus.”

Dorian blinked, and a soft, dazzling smile broke over his face. “Naturally,” he said, straightening and taking a step back. “Do you need anything?”

“I can dress myself. But hand me that jacket. The blue one, not the brown one.” The brown jacket was a little tight, and Simon didn’t _hurt_ , exactly, but he didn’t relish the idea of wearing anything constricting, either. He might as well be comfortable for the day.

#

Whatever regrets Simon felt at the thought of not participating in the melee washed away quickly enough. The day was clear and fine, crowd and combatants alike enjoyed a bright mood, and the seats in Sebastian’s box were comfortable. There was decent food and drink, too, as Josephine had apparently ordered up a picnic from the palace kitchens.

He noticed the way his friends formed a wall around him. Both him and Rory, in fact, as the two of them sat side by side. Dorian sat at Simon’s other side, Rainier and Sera in front, Cole at Rory’s other side. Hawke and Fenris and their children chattered with Varric on the other side of Sebastian and Josephine. There was something peaceful and satisfying about the sound of familiar voices joking and talking while they watched the battle play out in front of them. No one held back, this last day of the Tourney; alliances formed and dissolved in the midst of the melee, weapons clashing and people crashing to the ground while the crowd cheered and groaned.

Rainier turned toward him during a lull in the combat. “There’s something I should tell you,” he said, looking almost bashful behind the beard.

“Let me guess,” Simon said, guessing which way the wind blew. “You’re not coming back to Skyhold with us.”

Rainier sighed heavily. “You guessed it. That fight’s over.”

“There’s still work to be done,” Simon said, but he knew Rainier was right. The Inquisition wouldn’t — or at least shouldn’t — need its troops nearly so much in the next year.

“Diplomats’ work, more than anything else,” Rainier said, echoing his thought. “And I’ve... got some amends to make.”

“Mm.” Simon couldn’t say he was surprised.

“I ran into an old friend the other day. He had some words for me.” Rainier sighed. “Made me think. There are people I need to see, make my apologies to. If they’ll have ‘em.”

“That doesn’t sound like an easy road,” Simon said.

“No.” Rainier sighed again. “Lot of things worth doing aren’t.”

Sera twisted around in her seat as well. “Stop being so gloomy, nobody’s dying.”

“Wise words,” Simon said, scrutinizing her. In spite of her admonishment, she was frowning and fidgeting, eyes darting from one place to another. “So long as you don’t abandon us, too,” he said, taking a guess.

Sera squirmed in her seat.

“You _are_ ,” Simon exclaimed. He couldn’t say this surprised him, either, but something heavy seemed to be settling into his chest all the same. It was the end of the Inquisition as they’d known it, most likely the last time all these people would be in the same place.

“Not for good!” Sera protested. “I’ll be back, so don’t be taking my stuff.” She scowled at Simon briefly. “Just, there’s a Jenny in town needs a hand with a thing, and moving some stuff, so...” She shrugged.

“A thing and some stuff?” he asked, amused in spite of the weight of farewells.

“Yeah, you know how it goes. Might be some other Jennies in the Marches have a thing or two they need, too. ‘S what we do. Got to get on with it.” She looked up at him through a shock of pale hair. Not really looking for permission, he thought, but not wanting to leave on bad terms, either.

Simon considered her. “Write if you need bail, I guess.”

Sera scoffed. “As if I’d get _caught_.”

Simon laughed and settled back to watch the melee.

#

Dorian was relatively confident that they’d rooted out the entirety of the Venatori coven. At least, nothing they’d found in the house pointed to the presence of Venatori supporters elsewhere in the city, and surely there weren’t _two_ plots unfolding at once...

Even so, and in the face of all logic, he couldn’t quite relax. He found himself scanning the cheering crowd with a wary eye, ready to summon barriers on a moment’s notice. That sort of ceaseless vigilance was good practice for being back in Tevinter, he told himself, until Simon nudged his shoulder and gave him a concerned look.

After that, Dorian settled himself, and tried to get into a mood more in keeping with the sunshine and festivity of the day, but he still felt out of sorts, right until the end of the day.

As the audience was breaking up for the last time, murmuring and cheerfully tired, the unexpected struck.

“Hawke tells me that you are returning to the Imperium.”

Dorian eyed Fenris with wary surprise. Ill-concealed surprise, too, to judge from the elf’s slight, wry smile. He was amused at Dorian’s discomfiture, no doubt, and why shouldn’t he be? Dorian would have been less shocked to see a high dragon erupting out of the sky than to see have this particular person approach him with mild words.

“That is correct,” he said crisply, and added, out of some peculiar compulsion, “I shall change it for the better, if I can.”

“Mm.” Fenris looked off into the distance, arms crossed. Dorian watched the visible lines of lyrium trailing clear over the man’s arms, some part of his brain totting up the expense and power sunk into those brands. “You might sooner ask a mountain to move.”

“Yes, well. Someone has to try.” There seemed little point in arguing the worth of the effort to one who had seen the Imperium’s worst so close to hand.

Fenris merely nodded, staying silent long enough that Dorian wondered why he lingered at all, until he said, “I have a sister.”

“Have you?” Dorian said, surprised at the admission. He half-remembered some passing reference from Varric’s book, but Hawke hadn’t mentioned such a person in the time he’d been acquainted with her.

“A laetan, of sorts. Come late to her powers.” Fenris eyed Dorian sidelong.

Dorian’s lip curled. A slave-born mage was little more than a pawn to most magisters: a potentially useful tool, likely to be used mercilessly and then discarded. “I see.”

“She went back to the Imperium,” Fenris said, and there seemed a wealth of — something — under that simple sentence, something Dorian decided it was best not to inquire into. “I’ve heard little from her since. Understandable, perhaps. We didn’t part on the best of terms. But...”

Dorian waited a moment for the sentence to finish before realizing it wouldn’t. He saw, too, why Fenris had approached him. Dorian might have teased anyone else about asking for favors. Here, he merely said, “I could look out for her, if you like.”

“I would... appreciate that,” Fenris said. “Her name is Varania.”

Dorian nodded, making a note, and listened while Fenris told what little else he knew of her.

#

All along Simon had been rooting for his opponents of the previous day, particularly the woman from his last match, a formidable warrior. It was highly satisfying to see her among the last five warriors standing, even though she did not claim the final prize. He made a point of congratulating her nonetheless, when he followed Sebastian down from the box to greet the leading combatants. A quizzical expression crossed her face, as if she recognized his voice, or maybe something about his grip, but all she said was, “Thank you, serah. Er. Your Worship.”

“I was a Marcher first,” Simon told her, clapping her on the shoulder. “Well done.”

He was glad to let Sebastian make the speeches, heaping praise upon all the contestants. The heralds announced the prizes, there was a whirl of celebration and congratulation. Then the crowds melted away to their merriment — every tavern in the city would be packed tonight — and the lucky winners trooped off with the prince and his guests to a banquet at the palace.

Sebastian’s kitchens had outdone themselves for this final night; servants passed platters of roast meat, Starkhaven fish-and-egg pie in massive baking dishes, and a roast swan dressed again in its feathers, surrounded by a nest of sliced vegetables. Philliam was there again, but, thank the Maker, seemed intent on singing about the glories of Tourneys past and present, rather than celebrating Simon’s highly embellished adventures any further.

Either the wine was stronger than what they’d served before, or it was going to Simon’s head more than usual. Whatever it was, by the time he found himself on his feet, attempting to make a toast, he felt downright maudlin, far too full of sentiment and nostalgia for an occasion that was supposed to be cheerful. He blinked and looked over the rows of upturned faces, focusing on the ones dearest to him. Conveniently, his friends were also seated closest.

“We celebrate tonight,” he said, “as we should, and as our gracious host the prince has already said.” Scattered applause followed. Sebastian had already toasted the victorious combatants, and honored the efforts of all the participants. “But we also face a parting,” Simon said. “We’ve come together, for this endeavor —” He meant the Tourney, of course, but also the Inquisition, which loomed much colder and emptier without those who were departing. “— and now we part to take on new paths, or return to old ones. The friendship and camaraderie that we’ve had can never be replaced, and it’s been an...” He swallowed down the thickness in throat. “... an honor and a pleasure to know you all.”

He sat down to the murmurs of others echoing the toast and drinking, and flinched as a balled-up napkin hit him in the chest.

“Oi.” Sera glared at him from across the table. “Still not dead yet, don’t get all soppy.”

“Seriously.” Dorian edged Simon’s wine glass away from him. “I’m cutting you off. Such sentimentality.”

“You love it,” Simon said under his breath. Dorian was blinking a little too rapidly for Simon to take the critique to heart.

“We’re coming back!” Sera called, still glaring, interrupting whatever Dorian might have been about to reply.

The banquet wound down with more sweet pastries than anyone could possibly manage after all the food that had come before. The guests began to take their leave and drift away. Simon exchanged farewells with a handful of nobles whose titles had mostly run together in his head, and blinked as a figure in Chantry robes appeared in front of him.

“Connie,” he said with some surprise.

His sister smiled, looking briefly girlish again in spite of the robes and headdress. “I wanted to say goodbye, even if... well.”

“It’s all right,” he said. He hadn’t the heart to hold onto the old resentment tonight.

“I also wanted to see if you were all right. Rory mentioned this morning that you’d been injured, so...”

She looked genuinely concerned, eyes flicking over him as if looking for wounds.

“Did they really?” Simon glanced around for Rory, and found them patiently listening to some gesturing Chantry sister.

“Yes, and believe it or not, I do care what becomes of my little brother. Overgrown though you are now.”

Simon laughed, surprised. “I’m quite well, really. Thank you, Connie.”

She rose on her toes to hug him, startling him again. “Have a safe journey,” she said, and went to make her farewell to Rory, as well. With the same hug, Simon saw.

Well. It was good to know the entire family wasn’t a loss. Perhaps he’d speak to Cassandra, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I didn't mean to delay so long before updating. Life got a little complicated for my beta and me. There's a chapter still coming, this time without as long a hiatus, I hope...


	9. Chapter 9

At the end of the evening, Dorian found himself half-supporting Simon up the stairs. “I cannot believe you’re this drunk.” He was no more than mildly tipsy himself, just enough to feel warm and relaxed, finally, after all the day’s nerviness.

“It went straight to my head,” Simon said. “I’ve no idea why —”

Dorian snorted. “Perhaps yesterday’s knock on the head and massive blood loss had something to do with it?”

Simon stopped short, looking poleaxed. “Oh.”

“You’re impossible,” Dorian said fondly, and they continued their slow way up the stairs to the guest wing. He did not even think about retreating to his own room tonight (sadly neglected, that guest chamber), but headed straight for Simon’s. They stumbled in through the door, not really built for two people, especially when one of them had absurdly broad shoulders, and Simon sank into the nearest armchair heavily, blinking.

“Gah.” He shook his head. “Sorry. Not how I wanted to start the night.”

“It’s all right,” Dorian said. Contemplating tomorrow made his throat feel tight and his stomach clench.

“I keep wanting to ask you to stay,” Simon said. “But I know I shouldn’t, can’t... I don’t want to hold you back.” He groaned, running his hands through his hair and undoing the collar of his jacket with a jerk. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to say any of that. I’m in a mood tonight.”

So much for relaxation. “You are, and a rare one at that,” Dorian replied, staring at him. Simon had been irreproachable every time the topic of Dorian’s return to Tevinter came up. Expressing regret, yes, but always support, even urging Dorian on when he’d hesitated. And yet, some pathetic, hungry part of Dorian craved something different. Begging, remonstrations, pleading, anything to make himself feel chased and wanted. Even though he’d had no reason at all to doubt that he was wanted. Even though the begging might have broken his resolve, or broken something else that rebuilt itself into resentment.

But a plea now — even the start of a plea — he didn’t know whether he wanted to laugh or cry at it. “Do you want me to stay?”

“Of course I do! But that’s selfish, I’m not putting myself, what I want, before what’s best for you, or the rest of the world.” Simon stood, pulling off his jacket and gloves and dropping them carelessly to the floor, finishing up by raking his hands through his hair again, leaving it decidedly rumpled.

“What’s best for me?” Dorian asked. The too-familiar words familiar lit an old, dark resentment, never fully extinguished. “Do you think you know?”

“Perhaps not best, but —” Simon stared at him, eyes intent. “You want to change the world. You’ve talked about it ever since I’ve met you. And you love Tevinter more than anyone else I’ve ever met. If you can’t change the Imperium, as much as you care about your homeland, then no one can.”

Dorian took a breath and let it out, trying to let the irritation go with it. That misplaced anger belonged to Father and his schemes, not Dorian’s earnest and rather fetching amatus.

Simon went on, “I should be asking you how you are. Considering. It can’t be easy, going home again, after everything.”

“No,” Dorian said, turning to look at the fire. He pushed a little energy into it, sending the flames crackling higher against the cool of the night. Simon didn’t even know the whole story. He hadn’t told anyone since Felix. By now the whole thing was an ugly, sharp-edged lump of shame.

“So... are you? I mean...” Simon hesitated. “You were upset about it when we arrived here. How are you? About going back?”

Dorian laughed without mirth. “Oh, it’ll be splendid. Plots in every corner, Venatori idiots to root out, most of the Magisterium set in the same old stubborn plans, and then there’s my father.” He stopped, regretting how his mouth had run on. Perhaps he oughtn’t to have mentioned his father at all. Were they too drunk for this conversation, or just drunk enough?

“What about him?” Simon asked, his voice growing wary.

Get it out now, or keep still? It was, perhaps, a bad story to drop on Simon so shortly before Dorian’s departure. Perhaps he was better off leaving it where it lay in grimy silence at the bottom of his soul.

“Has he written you?” Simon asked, sharper. Dorian knew that tone; he was getting ready to bash something in the face in Dorian’s defense.

Dorian sighed. “No. It’s not that. We haven’t had contact since Redcliffe.” Briefly, he contemplated making something up, but with Simon staring at him with a deepening frown, there seemed little point. If he didn’t manage to come up with something sufficiently convincing, Simon would just keep worrying away at it. Out with it, then. “I told you what my father tried to do.” _To me_ , he didn’t say.

“Yes, you did,” Simon said, slowly and warily. By the look of it, the conversation was sobering him up rapidly.

“I didn’t tell you how.” Dorian shrugged, trying for careless. Presumably failing, as Simon’s eyes narrowed. “How I found out, I mean. He had me dragged home. Abducted from a lover’s house.”

“He did _what_?”

Having started, Dorian meant to finish. “And held captive at home. A pleasant enough prison, I suppose.”

“He...” Simon’s fists clenched. “ _How?_ I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “I’m finding it difficult to imagine how someone could hold you against your will for long.”

“Oh, that.” Having his own home turned into a prison had been a unique experience, equal parts horrifying and humiliating. But since Dorian had gone and brought the whole wretched tale into the light, he might as well finish it off. “I didn’t take him seriously at first. The family guards had orders not to let me leave, and I wasn’t keen on injuring them, so I bided my time. I think he hoped I would give in. I assumed he’d regain his senses eventually. We were both wrong.” Dorian grimaced. “Eventually he started dosing my meals. At some point after that, it occurred to me I wasn’t very clear-headed. Then things got really ugly.”

“Ugly how?” Simon asked shortly, and then shook himself. “Unless you’d rather not talk about it. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have —”

“There’s not that much more to say.” Dorian crossed his arms, partly to conceal how his hands were trembling. “There was a lot of shouting and threats. He told me what he planned. Stupid of him. You’d think he expected me to welcome it. I made my escape, and watched every door of every building I was in for the next six months. The first and only time I’ve used blood magic was that night. My own blood, mind you. Still unpleasant, but I needed a lot of power rather quickly.”

“Dorian.” Simon leaned forward, squeezing his arms with both hands. “I’m so sorry.”

Half a year ago, Dorian might have scorned the sympathy as pity. Now, he looked at the stricken, earnest expression on Simon’s face and allowed himself to be drawn into an embrace.  Airing the whole mess made him feel tight-strung and cold, in spite of the heat of the fire. Simon held him firmly, as if he might slip away at any moment. Dorian breathed carefully, and slowly took some comfort from the warmth and solidity of the hug.

“Are you sure you want to go back?” Simon asked softly, after a long moment.

_No_. _Yes._ Dorian pulled back far enough that they could look at each other. “Believe me, it’s been occupying my mind. The circumstances are different now. I’ll have Mae on my side. I don’t know that he’ll try anything again, but... I certainly shan’t be caught off-guard again. And after what we’ve been through in the last year, there are few that can match me.” There was really no substitute for regular combat to keep one’s skills sharp.

Simon’s jaw tightened. “If anything happens to you, I’m coming to Tevinter myself.”

“See, I knew you’d go over all protective,” Dorian said, managing a smile.

“Am I not supposed to, when you’re in danger?”

“Oh, I’m flattered,” Dorian said. “Not least with how heedless you are with your own safety. Inquisitor.” There was, indeed, something about the prospect of his amatus riding to his rescue that stirred his most sentimental and foolish fancies. But on the other hand, imagining Simon attempting to batter his way through the ranks of the Magisterium without Dorian to guide him chilled Dorian down to the core. Particularly after seeing Simon bound to a chair and leaking blood all over the floor.

He brushed a lock of hair out of Simon’s face, put on a smile, and said, “I assure you, I’ll be careful.”

“You had better be,” Simon said, all serious. He raised his hand to Dorian’s cheek and ran his thumb along Dorian’s cheekbone. “See to it that you don’t get yourself killed, or I’ll be very put out.”

“I should say the same to you,” Dorian said dryly.

Simon shook his head. “I’ll be careful.” To Dorian’s skeptical expression, he added, “And I’ll have Rory to keep me sensible.”

“Someone has to,” Dorian said. “And you must write.”

Simon laughed ruefully. “I’m not sure whether that’s crueler to me or to you. You know I write terribly.”

Dorian did know; Simon’s writing was sprawling, uneven, and atrociously enough spelled to set one’s teeth on edge. “I don’t care. Send me your words in your own hand. I don’t care what they look like.”

Simon gave him a long, searching look and then broke into a crooked smile. “You just want dirty letters.”

“That’s not all I want,” Dorian said. He wanted so much more than that, more than the heavy gods of duty and responsibility would allow. He’d always wanted more than he could have, and a year and more with the Inquisition had made him greedy. He wanted lazy mornings and evenings by the fire. He wanted forever, the one thing they couldn’t have. “But I’ll take them.”

Simon kissed him slowly, wholeheartedly; a promisingly thorough kiss. “I’ll do my best to provide.”

Dorian pulled him closer, needing to feel the whole solid line of his body against his own, the way the long muscles of Simon’s back shifted under Dorian’s hands, the strength of his arms pulling Dorian in just as tightly. One last night to memorize the feel of Simon’s body, to wash out the memory of him limp, chained, and bleeding and absorb this one: him warm and solid and sighing at Dorian’s touch. “Wherever we are,” he said. “However far apart — every sunset, I’ll watch and think of you.”

Simon laughed, his breath warm against Dorian’s ear. “That might be the most sentimental thing you’ve ever said.”

“Evidently you bring it out in me.”

Simon’s arms tightened around him. “I’ll do the same. Every sunset.”

#

The morning was frantic, with everyone was scurrying around packing like mad. The servants were making swift work of Simon’s own baggage, and he felt little need to supervise them personally, so he took a last ramble around the palace to seek out his friends.

He found Rainier first, his belongings neatly packed into a single bag. “Where are you headed?” Simon asked.

“Ansburg first, I think. I have a lead on one of my old company there.”

Simon nodded. “Good luck finding him.”

“Thank you,” Rainier said. “I’ll return when I can, if you’ll have me. I’ve been proud to serve the Inquisition.”

“We’ve been proud to have you,” Simon said, frankly. The resentment he’d harbored when he first learned of the man’s deception seemed needless now. “I owe you my personal thanks, as well, for the other night.”

“No need,” Rainier said. “Only take care of yourself, lad.”

Simon smiled. Rainier hadn’t called him that in some time, making it a comfortable reminder of the old days back in Haven. They shook hands, and Thom Rainier set out on his path.

It took Simon longer to find Sera.

“Are you defacing the portrait gallery?”

Sera stopped, brush in hand. “No? Maybe. Kinda. Paint washes off, doesn’t it?”

“I hope so,” Simon said, eyeing the portraits. Most of them didn’t look to be of any particular artistic merit, but then he wasn’t much of an art critic. Sebastian might not like having his ancestors enhanced with bold new facial hair, though.

“Eh, this one was ugly anyway.” Sera stuffed her brushes into a bag and whirled on Simon, pointing a finger at him. “And don’t you be getting soppy now, that’s no fun.”

He held up his hands. “What, I can’t even say I’ll miss you?”

Sera wrinkled her nose. “S’pose that’s not so bad.”

“Skyhold’s going to be awfully dull without you,” Simon told her.

Sera grinned at that. “Now that’s the truth. Don’t worry, Inky One, I’ll be back when you least expect it.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

He found Varric with Hawke’s party, bemusedly watching the whirl of chaos that was packing with two children in tow. “You’re all returning to Kirkwall?” Simon asked.

“For now,” Hawke said. “Eiriel, please put that back in the bag, your father _just_ packed it.”

“Never a dull moment with this lot,” Varric said. “Let’s step outside.”

Simon willingly followed Varric into the hallway, shutting the door on the spectacle of Hawke’s children chasing each other in circles around the room. “I’m grateful you stayed with the Inquisition as long as you did,” Simon said.

Varric chuckled. “I had to see how it came out in the end, didn’t I?”

“Still. I know you’ve had business elsewhere.”

Varric shook his head, smiling. “It was my pleasure. Besides, I always need new material.”

“If you publish my biography without telling me, I’m going to come to Kirkwall and hunt you down,” Simon said pleasantly.

Varric laughed again. “Is that supposed to be a threat? I already told Brains this, but you two look after each other. Way too much weird shit happens around you, and I’m not sure you’ve seen the end of it.”

“There’s still this,” Simon said, opening his palm. “Whatever it really is. That’s enough weirdness all by itself. But of course we’ll look after each other. I was looking after Rory long before the Inquisition came along.”

Having made most of his farewells, Simon became aware of a figure matching him from the shadowed side of the hall as he headed back to his own guest room. He paused. “You’re not leaving, are you, Cole?”

“Should I?” Cole asked, peering at Simon from under the brim of his hat.

“Not unless you want to. If you wanted to see more of the world or some such.” Simon felt a little at sea; Rory was usually the one who had the serious sorts of conversations with Cole. “I don’t want you to feel like you _have_ to stay.”

“I like staying with you and Rory,” Cole said, in that artless way which left no doubt of his sincerity.

“Well. Good.” Simon found himself heartened by that. Cole was an odd duck, but it was surprisingly comforting to have him around, peculiar ways and all.

“You’re sad because they’re leaving, but you’ll see them all again.”

Simon paused. “Are you sure of that?” He didn’t always understand what Cole was saying, so a single clear prediction was heartening.

Cole hesitated. “Somewhat?”

Perhaps not so certain after all. Simon smiled and patted Cole’s shoulder. “I’ll try to believe that, Cole. Thank you.”

That only left one farewell to make.

#

When he’d come to the south, Dorian hadn’t carried much more than the clothes on his back and his staff. Everything else — jewelry, books, even his birthright — had been pawned or abandoned by that time.

He was returning rather better equipped. Staff, casting rings, ordinary jewelry, books. Rory had passed him a copy of _Observations on Death Auras_ , saying, “I found this in a shop and it’s more in your line than mine;” and Dorian found a copy of Varric’s latest in his room, with a note that said “I know you read these, don’t even pretend you don’t.” His assortment of perfumes, lotions, combs, and other grooming tools had expanded, and he suspected Josephine or possibly Sera of slipping in a few more scented bottles that he didn’t remember acquiring. Clothing, fully customized and personally fitted armor, a few gadgets Dagna had been experimenting with, schematics... he had actual baggage this time. A good thing he was taking a carriage west along the Minanter and then north to Perivantium. Into the Imperium, and home.

He did miss it: stones soaked with sunlight and antiquity, the sounds of Tevene on people’s tongues, the taste of real food and wine.

Even though these days, home felt more like his book-strewn nook in the library and the Inquisitor’s quarters at the top of the tower.

Enough maundering. He’d set his course, and he’d hold to it.

A small, dark-haired child bolted, giggling, down the hallway past Dorian’s open door. A moment later Hawke ran past, shouting, “Come back here, you imp!”

Dorian strolled to the door, bemused, watching Hawke catch up with her errant offspring and scoop the child up into her arms. “Sorry,” she said breathlessly.

“There is no need,” Josephine said, smiling from her own doorway.

“They get everywhere, and of course they’re worst when there’s something urgent going on,” Hawke said, carrying the child along with her. “Safe journeys to all of you.” She paused at Dorian’s door. “And be careful, Dorian.”

“I’m always careful,” he said, a patent absurdity, but Hawke laughed and moved on.

“Are you ready?” Josephine asked, crossing the hall.

Dorian glanced back at his bags, a tidy pile in the center of the room. “Ready enough, I suppose.”

“We shall miss you greatly,” she said, surprising Dorian by reaching for his hands.

“Yes, well, with my looks, charm, and wit, everyone misses me when I’m not around.”

Josephine smiled. “More than you may know,” she said, and stretched up on her toes to press her cheek to his, Antivan-style. “Don’t ever forget you have friends outside the Imperium.”

Friendship of any sort felt unexpected, a startling gift to be handed without ulterior motive or scheme. He’d felt little enough warmth in his first days with the Inquisition, surrounded by wariness and suspicion. It had crept up on him gradually, the realization that people not only found him useful or amusing, but genuinely cared what became of him. He had to swallow before he could speak. “I shall.”

#

In truth, Simon and Dorian had already said their goodbyes, or at least had said what needed to be said. And in public, in full view of friends, servants, the carriage driver, and more, was not really the time and place for the kind of goodbye Simon might have preferred.

“Travel safely,” he said, the two words loaded down with the weight of all the things he wasn’t saying.

“Don’t worry about me,” Dorian said brightly. “You’re the ones returning through Orlais.”

It was no surprise to find Dorian choosing this tack, his mask of artifice and sarcasm more firmly in place than any Orlesian’s. Dorian had done his eyes darker than usual and put on a glittering smile. Simon wanted to kiss it off his face and see what expression he’d make then, but he refrained, conscious of the numerous eyes here, in front of the prince’s palace.

“I think we’ve got Orlais handled,” he said with a smile. “Take care with the Imperium.”

Dorian smiled wider, his eyes crinkling. “Oh, the Imperium won’t know what hit it.”

“Good,” Simon said, and found himself unwilling to leave it with quite this much pretense. He caught Dorian in one last, tight hug, whispering “be careful” into his ear, and stepped back, leaving Dorian with wider eyes and less of a smile.

He recovered himself quickly, though, making farewells to Rory and Josephine and Sebastian, and climbed into the carriage.

And... that was that, though Simon watched the carriage roll briskly away down the hill and disappear into the streets of Starkhaven.

Around him was yet more commotion, as his bags, Rory’s, and Josephine’s were brought down and loaded into more carriages, the horses harnessed and saddled. It was past midday, but they could be well on their way to Cumberland by nightfall.

“Are you all right?” Rory asked Simon in an undertone.

Simon shook himself, tearing his gaze away from where Dorian’s carriage had vanished. “I’m fine. Only a little tired, that’s all. No ill effects, I promise.”

“Good,” Rory said, “but that’s, er, not what I meant.”

“Oh.” Simon threw Rory a look. “I might as well ask the same of you, with Cassandra in Val Royeaux.”

Rory looked seriously back at him. “Why do you think I’m asking?”

“Ah.” Simon took a breath, considering. It hurt, but his heart went on beating, all the same. “I miss him already. And I worry about what he’s facing.”

Rory nodded, making an encouraging noise.

Simon shrugged. “It’s not going to be easy. But I’m going to be all right. Maker knows there’s enough to keep us all busy.”

“That’s true,” Rory said. “The diplomacy never seems to end.”

“Which is why we’re stopping in Val Royeaux on the way back,” Simon said, and was gratified to see Rory brighten. Simon grinned, and put an arm around Rory’s shoulders. “Come on, let’s go.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's a wrap! For now, at least. There is more in store for these characters -- this is pre-Trespasser, after all -- but I can't predict when I'll get to more fic for them.
> 
> My thanks to probablylostrightnow for able beta-reading and for the use of Rory, and much love and gratitude to all who have read and enjoyed this story!


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